Swapping Generals
by Goldleaf83
Summary: A revised, somewhat AU version of the episode "The General Swap," with backstory, epilogue and substantial missing scenes.
1. Chapter 1

Swapping Generals

By Goldleaf83

_Author's note: This is an episode I remember well from watching __Hogan's Heroes__ as a teenager. I believe it stuck in my head at the time because the conflict between Hogan and a general from his own side, who doesn't know about Hogan's real mission, results from a misunderstanding, put right at the end. I even wrote (long before I discovered the existence of fan fiction) a little missing scene from it, which appears in edited form as part of this story. When I found and reread that old piece recently, in light of having seen the episode once again, I was impressed with how well I had remembered the original, though I'd taken small liberties with some lines I couldn't quite remember. _

_But I was also struck by problems in the episode itself when I saw it again, the sheer impossibility of Hogan's solution to the difficulty of rescuing Barton. Granted, plausibility wasn't the strong suit of the television series. But the more I thought about Hogan's scheme in this episode, the more impracticable it seemed. _

_For example: the episode shows the men dismantling the plane at night in the compound, then reassembling it in the tunnel. But that just doesn't work. Remember those searchlights they had to duck in all the other episodes? Even Klink's guards couldn't have missed the plane moving around the main part of the compound, or swarming with men in between the barracks. Not to mention that either the prisoners would need power tools to get the riveted metal apart (and again even Klink's guards couldn't have missed that noise in the middle of the night!) or they would have taken forever to get the metal panels taken apart by hand (and probably not in any shape to put back together convincingly), and again, they would have been seen by the guards. And then "flying" the German Field Marshal back to England in the partially reassembled plane: he's one of the most highly placed, decorated officers in the military, and he can't tell that the engine noise is from a record player? (And just where did they get a record of plane engine noise?) Hogan's team is rocking the plane to simulate air flight, but what about the (nonexistent) throb of the engines? (Especially given that those planes would not have had the sound dampening features of modern commercial jets, which are noisy and thrumming enough inside the air pressurized cabins.) Or when they supposedly arrive in England, Von Heinke doesn't notice the absent g-forces during deceleration of the "landing"? Or when they get him out of the "plane" he doesn't notice the difference in tunnel air and the moist fresh air of an English airfield? Even blindfolded, his nose and skin and ears would be telling him he's not outside. How about a car ride to the "camp"? And getting him from the tunnel, up the ladder to Hogan's office somehow mirrors getting him into a base? _

_It's all very funny the way it's told in the episode, of course. But my suspension of disbelief snaps when I start thinking it through, even if Hogan does try to cover over a couple of the problems by telling Von Heinke he's at an "underground hangar . . . one of the most secret bases in England." That just doesn't explain away enough of the problems. Then there are the difficulties of arranging the actual swap, with Von Heinke on the wrong side of the border for a prisoner exchange, which would have been conducted under very strict guidelines. So Carter's comment to Hogan in the episode, "He'll never go for the swap. He'll think he's still in Germany," raises a crucial question, which the show doesn't convincingly answer, for me at least. So . . . how to fix it, honoring the intention and emotional impact of the original episode and Hogan's general character? The following story is one possibility. The first several chapters follow the television episode fairly exactly, particularly the dialogue, with only minor variations for the sake of greater believability as well as consistency within the alternative version I am writing, though I fill it out with greater detail and some missing scenes. The major shift away from canon will come several chapters in._

_I have loved __Hogan's Heroes__ since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy, although I have taken the liberty of adding a few minor characters to the original set. And though I borrow some of the dialogue written by R.S. Allen and Harvey Bullock in their memorable __Hogan's Heroes__ episode "The General Swap," I acknowledge their ownership and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story._

The question, Hogan decided, was how to better manage the flow of escaping fliers to the coast. They couldn't send too many through the pipeline at once and sometimes needed to wait a while between "shipments." No one wanted to stay down in the tunnels for days – occasionally even weeks – at a time, though it could sometimes take that long for the underground to handle another airman or two. Soooo, Hogan mused, it would be handy to have a way of letting them in with the rest of the camp till passage was arranged so they could leave . . . but of course the "no escape" record had to stay intact. Which was how the idea of "Houlihan" came to him.

Swapping out escaping Allied airmen to play Houlihan made life a lot easier for everyone. It gave the team time to make convincing papers and civilian clothes that fit. The risk was that the Krauts would notice that Houlihan was a different guy every couple of weeks or so, but that could be managed given Schultz's devotion to his "I see nothing!" philosophy. And there was always LeBeau's strudel to help convince him if needed.

Lieutenant Stevens, their most recent "Houlihan," was about ready to go; he'd been there over a week. Given his height, at 6'2", they'd had some challenges to get the right outfit for him, but Newkirk and Kinch had used the extra time to coach him on the route. They were lucky that Stevens had a surprisingly good grasp of German, having grown up outside Herman, Missouri, a heavily German-settled area near St. Louis, so he needed only minor drilling in accent and some vocabulary. A new "Houlihan" had been brought in the night before, the lone uncaptured survivor from a raid two days ago. Moretti was as short as the departing "Houlihan" was tall, which would make it harder for Schultz to overlook the difference, but those were the breaks.

Having finished coaching Stevens on the route and passwords, Hogan led him back into the main room of the barracks. "Got the plan straight, 'Houlihan'?" he asked, unable to resist teasing him about the made-up name.

"Yeah," answered Stevens, confidently. "You think it'll really work?"

LeBeau grinned. "It always has!"

Kinch, perched on the table adding to the statistics he kept on all their work, glanced up as they came by. "Yeah, a week from now you'll be back in England," he said, just a touch enviously.

Hogan surveyed Lt. Stevens a final time, dissatisfied. Something looked off. "Wait a minute. LeBeau, that hat's too small. Get him another one, hunh?"

The hat had been a matter of debate, and despite LeBeau's arguments Newkirk had picked a Tyrolean style for Stevens. Granted, the style was supposed to be worn on top of the head rather than settling further down like a fedora, so it was deliberately sized a bit smaller than other hats, but on someone as tall as Stevens the Tyrolean style emphasized his height even more and made him stand out too much. LeBeau gleefully grabbed for his original choice, a brown felt homburg that came down further on Stevens's head.

As LeBeau hunted for the hat, Stevens couldn't help asking, "But Colonel, what happens when they find a prisoner missing?"

Newkirk, leaning against the bunk that led to the tunnel, pitched in cheerfully, "Ah, but they won't, because we've got a chap downstairs waiting to be smuggled in to take your place."

Hogan caught the hat LeBeau tossed to him. "Mm-hm. Thanks, LeBeau." Settling it on Stevens's head, he looked at him again appraisingly. Yep, this one worked better. "Ah, 'wunderbar,'" he said with a grin and a wink.

It was time to go; Olsen was waiting down in the tunnel to take Stevens to the end and time the exit from the tunnel, and the new "Houlihan" was waiting to come up. Hogan clapped Stevens on the arm and wished him luck, while the others made their farewells: a "take it easy" from Kinch and a "_bon chance_" from LeBeau, as Newkirk helped Stevens negotiate the ladder. "And remember, getting there is half the fun," Hogan couldn't resist adding. The trip to the coast through Nazi Germany was dangerous, of course, but with the clothes and the papers Stevens had, the escape route they'd drilled into him, and the help of the Underground, he should have every chance. They'd gotten a lot of men out that way since setting up their Travelers' Aid Society.

Kinch's mind seemed to be running on the same topic. "That's the 107th guy so far, Colonel. Don't you ever wish it was you making that little trip back home?" he asked as Hogan looked down at the small book of figures in Kinch's hand.

"No sirree," the Colonel answered. "When I leave I'm walking right out that front gate." He gestured carelessly toward the prison yard. He couldn't let himself think anything else at this point, not after the sweat and blood he had poured into this place. He still missed flying terribly, but he had finally accepted that he would be seeing the war out from here – if all went well, if he could keep the operation going without getting himself and everyone else caught. . . . But that was too risky a topic to think about. Quickly he added with a grin, "Besides, I look terrible in a Tyrolean hat!"

Kinch chuckled back and the uncomfortable moment passed as Hogan turned back toward the tunnel, where Newkirk was helping the new "Houlihan" up the ladder and into the barracks. A short guy, maybe as tall as LeBeau, he made a marked contrast to the departing Stevens. He looked rather bewildered as he clambered up into the barrack's main room. "There we are," said the Englishman reassuringly. "Welcome to Stalag 13."

"Colonel Hogan," he said, offering his hand as well as his name. He didn't get a chance to get the new guy's name, though: Carter, on watch at the door, called out, "Schultz is comin'."

Everyone scrambled to get in front of the tunnel entrance. Schultz had suspicions about all the "monkey business" that went on in Barrack 2, but Hogan preferred to keep him in dark about the mechanics; it was safer that way for them, and Hogan suspected that Schultz preferred it that way too. The guard's bluster covered the remaining rattle as the bunk slid into its normal place.

"_Achtung_, everybody _achtung_, if you please," Schultz called out as he moved toward the group of five men grouped in front of the bunk. They'd all relaxed once the bed was lowered down, and they greeted the guard easily. But Schultz's eyes lit on the newcomer almost immediately. "Oh ho, ho, ho, wait a minute, who-what-what-what—who is this?" Schultz demanded, first pointing to the new guy, then plucking him by the sleeve and drawing him forward. To his credit, the new guy didn't panic and just played along, just as Kinch had drilled him while he was down in the tunnel.

Hogan leaped in immediately. "What's the matter, Schultz? Don't you recognize good ol' Houlihan?"

Schultz looked at him disbelievingly. "Good old Houlihan? THAT is 'good old Houlihan'?"

Everyone chimed in with a chorus of yeps, rights, uh-huhs, nodding vigorously – even "Houlihan."

But Schultz wasn't biting so far. "'Good old Houlihan' was like this," raising his hand to the top of his helmet, "not like THAT," he finished, lowering it to the top of the new "Houlihan's" head – about even with his own chin.

Hogan protested, "He shrunk a little bit! It's that prison camp diet."

Schultz nodded, but frowned, muttering to himself, "Oh ho, _ja_ . . ." and Hogan wondered if he was going to have to push Schultz further, when the sound of a siren outside filtered in. Newkirk redirected everyone's attention to it – and safely away from "Houlihan" – with "Hey, what's that?"

Hogan pushed "Houlihan" along in front of him and out of the way, while everyone made a general rush for the door. Corporals Saunders and Pike grabbed "Houlihan" and pulled him behind them, towards their bunk on the far wall of the barrack and away from Schultz's attention. Fortunately the guard was now engaged in blocking the doorway and had forgotten about the substitute prisoner in the urgency of fulfilling the duty he had originally come into the barrack for. Despite his bulk, Schultz had scurried to the doorway to stand in front of it with his hands up in front of him. "Everybody hold it, hold it, hold it! Everybody stay back, back, baaack! Nobody's going outside! Nobody's LOOKING outside! Order of the Kommandant!" he bellowed, shaking his finger at them.

The demand was unusual enough to make everyone look at each other. Something was up. Hogan, his eyebrows raised, asked, "Why, who's out there, Schultz?"

The direct approach didn't work this time. "I will not tell you. Please, ONCE in a while I have to be on our side," the guard answered plaintively.

Time for some more misdirection. Newkirk caught the colonel's glance and immediately called out, "Ahh, guys, let's look out the window!"

The tactic worked just as well the second time: almost everyone immediately rushed back to the other end of the room, even the new "Houlihan" happily playing along, while Schultz, frustrated, pushed his massive body through the crowd to defend the window, hollering "Noooo! No, no, no, no! Wait! Hold it! No no no no! Nobody at the window! Nobody looking out! I have my orders! No no no no!" Newkirk, LeBeau, Pike, and Saunders pinned the guard behind the bunk by crowding close, blocking his view of the doorway.

Hogan, meanwhile, pretended support for the guard, calling out absently, "All right, Schultz. Keep away from the window!" even while Carter, Kinchloe, and he opened the door to see what was happening in the compound.

A truck had just pulled up in front of the cooler. One of Stalag 13's guards unlatched the back of the truck. Two guards jumped out, guns at the ready, while a third circled around from the passenger side of the truck. Another jumped down, while a fifth held a prisoner by his right arm at the edge of the truck bed. That guard jumped down with the prisoner, whose left arm was grabbed by the fourth guard as they pushed him toward the gate of the cooler compound, now unlocked by two of Stalag 13's guards, also now at the ready. They all moved fast, hustling the prisoner into the cooler. It was too far away to see the insignia; all Hogan could tell was that the new prisoner was wearing an American officer's uniform, and he didn't seem to be handcuffed.

Hogan's stomach flipped, remembering the rough handling he'd gotten when he'd been shot down. He pushed the memory away – he needed to focus on the present situation. Officers weren't brought to Stalag 13 in the normal course of events, much less with that level of security, all of which meant this event was most likely a problem he was going to have to handle somehow or other.

"Must be a new prisoner," Carter said, peering intently across the yard as he held the door jamb and watched the flurry of activity.

"Yeah, a big one, to get treatment like that," Kinch added from behind them, also gazing attentively, striving for details.

"Yeah, but who?" Hogan muttered. That was the crucial question; he had to know that in order to decide what to do – if anything – about this guy. "I think I'll find out from Klink."

Schultz was still shielding the window from the objecting prisoners; Hogan could hear an increasingly frantic note in his protesting "No, no, no, no!" Time to rescue him. Hogan stepped away from the door and strode over towards the window. "All right, c'mon fellas. Break it up! Schultz has his orders."

Relieved at the colonel's exercise of authority, Schultz scolded emphatically as he waded through the crowd, "That's right! No looking!"

Hogan suppressed a grin. "That's right, Schultz. And don't worry. Nobody saw the truck or the prisoner."

"Good!" Schultz sighed in relief. Then the penny dropped. His eyebrows shot up, a comical look of dismay on his face. "Truck? Prisoner?" he repeated, realizing the secret was out. Immediately he took refuge in his all-purpose response, growling in frustration: "Rrrmmh! I know nothing!" as he pushed past the smirking colonel and slammed the door on his way out.

_Author's note: The Houlihan set-up sort of parallels the situation with Olsen in the pilot, though without an actual outside man. But the writers of the show didn't pick up on the earlier set-up for this episode. As we all know, consistency wasn't their strong point._


	2. Chapter 2

Hogan waited about ten minutes to be sure the restriction to the barracks was lifted, using the time to fill the others in on what they had seen and to cancel Stevens's departure. The Krauts looked to be tightening camp security, and Hogan didn't want to chance muffing the escape. Satisfied that all was set, he then headed over to Klink's office. Unfortunately the guard on the porch was Hahn, who had a definite dislike for Hogan and who therefore decided to accompany him into the reception area, much to Hogan's displeasure; Hahn's presence meant no flirting with Hilda this time. He gave her a smile anyway, as he made his request to see the Kommandant. She dimpled demurely in the presence of the unfriendly guard and told him to go on in. Hogan rapped at the door, and after hearing an impatient "Come in, come in!" he pushed the door open and entered.

Rather surprisingly, Klink was not sitting at his desk as usual but standing looking out the open window, drinking a glass of champagne. He turned to face his senior prisoner, annoyance at seeing him written all over his face. "Yes, Hogan, what is it this time? Another complaint?"

Flattery was the approach for the day, Hogan decided – not that it was a tough choice. That was what usually worked best. "Yes, sir. You see the men feel – "

But Klink wasn't having any of it this time. He snapped "Denied!" as he turned to look out the window, waving his hand as though swiping at an irritating insect. "Hogan, I am much too busy today to be concerned with your petty little problems."

But not too busy to be drinking champagne, Hogan thought in exasperation. He kept the thought to himself, though: it wouldn't be helpful. Instead, he baited his comment in a way he knew Klink would be unable to resist. "I understand, sir, it's just that the men are worried about you."

Yep, that worked. Though Klink didn't turn around, he definitely paused and Hogan knew he had his attention. "Worried about me?" the Kommandant asked.

Hogan could hear the surprise in Klink's voice. Next step, pretend you won't explain. . . . "As you said, sir, you have more important things to think about." He turned and stepped toward the office door. He'd actually gotten his hand on the knob when Klink turned away from the window and gestured for the American to return. "Hogan, wait, wait! As Kommandant, it is my duty to be interested in the welfare of my men. Now what was this about me?" he demanded, pouring himself another glass of champagne.

How could anyone be so self-absorbed as to not hear the absurdity in that statement, Hogan wondered in disgust – but this was Klink after all. He pushed on with the flattery, though his nose twitched as the bouquet from the bubbly rose enticingly from Klink's glass, not two feet away. He hadn't had a good champagne in quite a while. . . . "Colonel, you have a wonderful record here. Two years and not one escape, and that's something to be proud of. You're proud of it and we're proud of it." Hogan casually picked up the extra champagne glass sitting on Klink's desk next to the bottle.

Klink's face took on a look of fatuous pride. "Naturally, naturally. Thank you," he smiled. "So?" Noticing Hogan's empty glass, he automatically fell into host mode and poured champagne into it.

Hogan shifted his tone to complaint. "So it's just not fair. Why doesn't the High Command recognize your ability?" Time to mix a little envy in. . . . "Instead all their attention goes to that Colonel Stuben at Kleinfeld Prison, and he's not half the officer you are." Hogan lifted the glass in an informal toast to Klink before raising it to his own lips.

Klink's balloon of self-congratulation was immediately pricked by the comparison, just as Hogan had expected. "Mmmf! Stuben at Kleinfeld – he is nothing!"

Hogan sipped, then drained the champagne glass. A good one, plenty of fruit, but not sweet, nice and dry. But he had to keep sight of his objective, so he continued, piling the flattery on, higher and deeper. "Yeah? Then why do all the important prisoners go there instead of here? It's a slur against you, sir, and all of us are pretty unhappy about it!" He made his voice increasingly strident while pouring a second glass of champagne for himself. "Why, we want to know, _why_ is our Kommandant being overlooked? Why? It's just not right!" He drained the second glass too.

Klink's expression became calculating. "So . . . uh . . . my prisoners feel that their good colonel is being overlooked, eh?" Hogan poured himself a third glass, and nodded. "Not so, my dear Hogan, not so!" Klink barked loudly enough that Hogan looked up in surprise. "The prisoners can relax. My abilities are recognized!" He waved his hand emphatically, then walked back to look out the window again. Hogan followed. With elaborate casualness, Klink inquired, "Ah, by the way, did you notice the truck that just arrived?"

Couldn't let Klink know that Schultz had let the cat out of the bag. With equally elaborate casualness Hogan responded, "Truck? A truck came in? We were all so busy with our ceramics, sir."

Klink's satisfaction seemed to swell. "Yes, there was a truck. On it was a prisoner, an American officer." Klink looked back over his shoulder slightly.

Now they were getting somewhere. Hogan decided to low ball it. "All right, so they send you a second lieutenant. Still sir, a man with your record – "

Klink cut in, waving his finger. "No, no, no, no, no," he chanted happily. "Not a second lieutenant, not a first lieutenant."

Hogan dismissed this immediately. "All right, a captain then. Still sir, I – "

Klink cut him off again, still wagging his finger. "No, no, no, no, no – not a captain."

This was beginning to alarm Hogan. He baited the trap with disbelief. "You're pulling my leg. What could he be?" he challenged.

Klink turned and stared him directly in the eye. "Let me just say, COLONEL, that you are no longer the highest ranking prisoner in this camp."

Oh dear Lord. Hogan stiffened and swallowed the sickening dread that threatened to choke him. "No. Not a general." Please not that.

Klink clearly realized he'd scored a major hit against his senior prisoner this time. He continued coyly, yet so full of smug satisfaction that Hogan had no doubt he'd guessed right, "I won't say yes. I won't say no." He waved his hand lightly, then added intensely, "JUST important enough for Field Marshal Von Heinke to fly here tomorrow from Berlin at my invitation." He turned back to look out the window as Hogan stared grimly downwards, contemplating the mess that had just landed in his lap. Klink burbled on, "We will be photographed together with the prisoner in front of his plane, which was shot down. Ah, ah, ah! And there it is now." He gestured out the window, where Hogan could see the wingless body of a U.S. B-25 being towed in through the gate.

Get to work, Hogan told himself bleakly. Get the information. "Who did you say this American general was?" But he was off balance, and the question was too blunt. Klink wasn't buying in any longer. He turned to look at the American with smug delight at having a secret to refuse to share.

"That, my dear Colonel Hogan, you will find out tomorrow along with the rest of the world," he smiled as he strode back behind his desk.

With an effort, Hogan resumed his role. "I can hardly wait, sir." He finished his glass of champagne and poured another half glass, finishing the bottle. No point in letting Klink know that, though. "I can't tell you what this will mean to our men, sir. At last they'll be able to sleep at night." He kept the irony he was feeling out of his voice, quite sure that none of them would be sleeping much over the next few nights. He touched his glass to Klink's "Congratulations," then drained it a final time. "Mmm, mmm." Putting it down, he headed toward the door, but turned to give Klink a salute before leaving. Klink grinned broadly in triumph as he returned the salute, and Hogan closed the door, escaping the office just in time to miss Klink's glower as he discovered the champagne bottle was empty.

_Author's note: Thanks to Karl and Michel at the Stalag 13 Forum for the identification of General Barton's plane._


	3. Chapter 3

Given the import of the information he'd weaseled out of Klink, Hogan felt little triumph in the small trick of drinking his champagne. Plus, the alcohol washing through his system now felt sour in his stomach as he crossed the compound to where Newkirk and Carter were standing in front of Barrack 2. Kinch came out buttoning his collar against the chill air just as Hogan announced the bad news, "They've captured a general."

LeBeau turned to stare at Newkirk with dismay while Kinch delivered his own bad news, looking directly at the colonel. "Not just 'a general' – that's General Barton."

_"Barton?"_ Hogan snapped. The situation was turning out to be even worse than he'd feared.

Kinch nodded in confirmation. "I've been on the radio to London."

Hogan groaned. "General Barton, chief of all daylight bombing! No wonder they're taking pictures tomorrow." His gaze wandered over to the highly guarded cooler compound, as Newkirk took a dispirited drag on his cigarette and LeBeau glared in impotent despair at the ground. "What a propaganda plum for them."

Not to mention a security nightmare for headquarters. What the hell had Barton been doing up in a plane, risking getting shot down? His internal fury grew. Generals were supposed to command from a desk! Or at least from well behind the lines. They were NOT supposed to risk getting captured! And Barton, of all people – the strategy and information locked in his head . . . if the Nazis found out all that Barton knew, it could change the tide of the war. If the Luftwaffe was pressured to give up custody of him to the Gestapo for interrogation in the name of national security. . . . Hogan's stomach twisted. Now what were they going to do?

And then Kinch added the final kicker. "London also wants us to spring him."

Hogan stared at him, the utter impossibility of the task fully hitting him. "Spring a general?" he managed to get out. He was supposed to come up with a way to fix this. Right.

Newkirk echoed his own disbelief. "Oh blimey, they know how to ask. That's a flippin' tough assignment!"

LeBeau grumbled, "If he was just an ordinary prisoner, maybe, but – "

Hogan looked at the Frenchman. _That_ was an idea. . . . "Wait a minute, LeBeau, that's it. If we could convince Klink that guy isn't Barton. . . ." The question was how. . . . Hogan tried to think, only to be distracted by Newkirk.

"'Ello. That must be one of the crew from the general's plane." The Englishman gestured with his cigarette as the gate opened and a Kübelwagen came through, an American officer sitting in the passenger seat.

They must have caught him relatively nearby and brought him here for safekeeping before sending him to an officer's camp, Hogan thought. Just great, _another_ officer to try to spring before he got transferred out . . . another officer . . . wait a minute. . . . "LeBeau, see what you've got in your bag of tricks. I need an insignia, for an American general."

The Frenchman cottoned on immediately. "Right, _Colonel_," he answered, disappearing inside the barrack while the others watched the car pull up in front of the Kommandantur and Schultz waddle out from the office, across the porch and down the stairs, to examine the paperwork. LeBeau reappeared. "Here, _Colonel_," he said quietly, putting two stars into his CO's hand. Hogan tapped him lightly on the elbow in thanks, then headed across the compound. If this would just work . . . he had to get that officer to cooperate with him. . . .

Schultz rounded the vehicle, calling out, "_Raus, raus, mach schnell. Schnell, schnell, schnell, schnell, schnell, schnell, schnell. Raus, raus, raus_." Despite the quickly repeated commands to hurry, there was no rancor in his voice, just a somewhat bored tone in doing a job he had done many, many times before.

Hogan ambled up, close enough no to see that the new American was a captain. That was good: far enough down the chain of command that he wasn't likely to balk at orders from a colonel he didn't know. "Hey Schultz, who's your friend?"

Schultz was experienced enough to recognize Hogan's tone and presence as a problem, not to mention his standing orders that the American colonel was to have no contact with other officers. "No chitchat, I have to take him to the Kommandant."

Hogan played it light. "Oh c'mon, you can't take him to the Kommandant looking like this. What are you talking about?" As he spoke, he began straightening up the captain's uniform, deftly switching out the bars on the collar with the general's stars he had palmed. The new officer watched him, bewildered. "Remember, name, rank, and serial number. That's all you tell 'em," he said firmly out loud, then leaned in close to murmur, "They've got Barton; we're trying to spring him; play along. Say you're him, that's an order." It was all he had time for; he hoped it was enough. He saw the new guy nod slightly—that was a good sign.

It was too much for Schultz, who scolded, "Shhh! No talking!"

"Who's talking? I'm whispering," Hogan responded, stepping back and folding his hands in front of him as he saw Klink approach.

Klink came up, swagger stick tucked under his arm, obviously intent on showing off his authority. "And what have we here?" he demanded.

Schultz straightened to attention; Hogan pointedly did not. "Herr Kommandant, a new prisoner! Sound off!" the sergeant ordered.

Hogan held his breath as the new prisoner stood straight . . . and did _not_ salute the German colonel. "General Aloysius Barton, United States Army Air Corps," he proclaimed.

Schultz's eyes popped, and he snapped back to full attention with a formal salute. Klink too immediately did a double take on the name. "Did you say General Barton?" Then noticing Schultz still standing at attention, he barked, _"Schuulltz!"_ in protest. Glancing worriedly at Hogan, the Kommandant muttered, "Impossible."

Perfect. Hogan took that as his cue, mixing flattery in with the false information he needed to plant. "Ah, I knew you'd catch on, Colonel. It's an old American trick. All the flyers carry these insignia in case they're shot down. They pretend to be General Barton: that way they get special treatment." Turning to the new officer, he added, "Nice try, pal, but I knew he'd catch on – too smart!" He hoped he hadn't overplayed it with that last line, but the fortunately the guy just shrugged. Excellent. . . .

Klink was musing distractedly on the claim by this new prisoner, stepping aside as Schultz led the man off for processing. "Hogan, you say they all pretend to be – "

Hogan pretended to make the connection he'd just created for Klink. "Ohh, don't tell me that other prisoner said he was Barton. . . . Oh, that's bad. Probably just a sergeant. I told the men you had a real general!" He colored his voice with disappointment.

"He seemed so sincere," Klink said dispiritedly.

"And the field marshal coming tomorrow to have his picture taken – at your invitation! – with an enlisted man!" He put all the officerly disdain he could muster into his voice, then turned friendly and urgent, advising, "Look, you'd better get him out of here, whoever he is, before the field marshal comes."

Klink didn't fall for it completely, but his faith had obviously been shaken. "But I must be sure. Hogan, wait! You would know a brigadier general in your own air corps! You could identify him!"

Okay, that could work. "Well, I . . ." he pretended to demur.

"Come, let's see if he's real or not, and then you tell me!" Klink demanded.

"Well, if I can be of help, lead on," Hogan said, playing his happy prisoner role.

_Author's Note: I believe a number of writers have used the idea that Hogan is the only officer in the camp; I am not sure who originated the idea in fan fiction, or at this point even in exactly whose stories I first read it. It is an issue where the television series does not fit the common practice of that time in history: generally camps were either for officers or enlisted men, but there were some exceptions to that, especially as the war dragged on and the number of prisoners grew. (Stalag VII-A at Moosburg in Bavaria was originally an NCO camp; later in the war both officers and enlisted men were transferred to it. It has a fascinating website; search for Moosburg POW camp in Google and you'll find it easily.) The series shows other men besides Hogan wearing officer's uniforms. But it is convenient for a number of reasons for me to follow what seems a widespread fan fiction premise in making Hogan the only officer in Stalag 13, and I am indebted to those who have explored the idea in their fiction._


	4. Chapter 4

Hogan took in the cell as the guard opened the door. They had put Barton in one of the first cells, the largest one, with a barred door. It certainly looked a lot better than the last time Hogan had been forced to spend a few days there. A comfortable cot with a real mattress, pillow, sheets, and two blankets replaced the former wood bunk and thin wood chip mattress. Rather than the usual two wooden buckets, a table with a porcelain pitcher, basin, and even a covered chamber pot sat in the corner. Several pictures enlivened the walls, including a watercolor of a medieval German village that Hogan recognized from Klink's own quarters. In another corner, a lamp was sitting on a small table; a red Bible with a pack of cigarettes on top rested there too. A wood armchair stood next to the table; over its back the general's flight jacket had been carelessly tossed.

Barton was pacing restlessly, smoking a cigarette, looking taut and on edge. Running his eyes over him quickly, Hogan noted that the general moved easily and showed no signs of injury, easing one knot of worry in his mind.

Klink pushed his way into the cell as the guard opened it, staring critically at his newest prisoner. "All right, Hogan, is this General Barton?"

Hogan grinned and shook his head. "Not a chance!"

Surprised and clearly unamused, Barton demanded, "What is all this?"

C'mon, Hogan thought to him, play along! Aloud he answered, "Nice try, pal, but the colonel here knows you're not Barton. He's going to take you out of this maximum security cell and put you in with the rest of us." As Hogan laughingly denied Barton's identity, he sought the American general's eyes, silently begging him to cooperate. Surely he'd pick up on those hints. . . .

Unfortunately, Barton didn't see the plea. Hogan could see the look of grim anger forming on the general's face and remembered – too late – that Barton had been known around base as a straight shooter with no sense of humor. The man didn't have a subtle bone in his body, and he had totally missed Hogan's cues.

"Rubbish. I am General Barton, and I'm entitled to all the privileges of my rank." Barton reined back his anger for a moment, no doubt because Hogan was the first officer from his own side that he had seen since his capture. In a slightly milder tone, he asked, "And just who are you?"

Klink, naturally, jumped at this opportunity to join the conversation by making introductions. "This is Colonel Hogan, ranking officer among the prisoners here."

Barton's eyes momentarily took on a faraway look as he briefly searched his memory. "Hogan . . . yes, I remember you. You were the commanding officer of the 504th. But uh, that was quite a while back."

Hogan's stomach lurched at the casual mention of his former command. He had never revealed it during interrogation, no matter how much pressure they had brought to bear on him; although the Germans knew it, they hadn't gotten it from him. And here Barton had just casually handed the information to them. So much for just name, rank, and serial number.

"Hogan has been a prisoner here for two years," Klink added officiously, before Hogan could get a word in edgewise.

"Two years?" Barton was clearly surprised, and not much impressed. "Had many escapes?"

Hogan groaned inwardly. Klink immediately went into his inevitable spiel, and Hogan knew that it would _not_ go over well with a superior officer like Barton.

"No one has ever escaped from Stalag 13!" With a sidelong glance at his longtime prisoner, Klink added snidely, as Hogan looked down, defeated, "Colonel Hogan has been most understanding and cooperative."

The expected boast from Klink was bad enough, and Hogan sighed as he saw the general's face darken, but Klink's addition caught Hogan by surprise. He had no time to protest, however, as he saw Barton's anger escalate into fury – and contempt. Hogan had gotten plenty of senior officers annoyed at him as he'd climbed the hierarchy of the Army Air Corps, but he had never faced the kind of scorn and disdain directed at him that he could see on Barton's face now.

"Oh so that's it. _Cooperative!_" the general sneered. "A sellout. It is the duty of every officer to try to escape. Hogan, you're a disgrace to the uniform." He stepped closer, into Hogan's personal space, looking directly into the colonel's eyes. He lowered his voice, but the tone became even more cutting as he spoke through clenched teeth, "And when I get back to London I'm going to take great pleasure in personally arranging and overseeing your court martial." Barton turned to address Klink. "Now get this filthy traitor out of my sight."

Hogan clenched his jaw and kept his chin up and his face straight during the general's tongue-lashing. Barton's accusations were the worst insults that any officer could say of another, and being dressed down in such a humiliating fashion in front of an enemy officer – in front of _Klink_ no less – cut deeply. But he couldn't afford to show anything other than a stoic front.

"Yes, Herr General. Hoogan!" Klink glared at Hogan, clearly furious now that he clearly saw the con that Hogan had tried to pull on him. He gestured sharply towards the door, and Hogan silently obeyed, exiting the cell as Klink dogged his heels. As the guard locked the door of the cell, Klink turned to Hogan, a hard look on his face. "Now, Hogan, you can tell the good news to your men. We really do have the real General Barton, don't we." His voice made it a statement, not a question.

Hogan was too beaten at this point to maintain any pretense at his earlier game. "Yep. That's General Barton all right," he answered quietly, not masking the bitter tone in his voice.

ooOoo

Hogan and Klink brushed past Schultz, who was standing just a few feet down the hallway, consternation over what he had just heard written all over his face as he looked at the two colonels. Hogan focused on the doorway, simply wanting to cut his losses and get away. But as they exited the building, Klink cut in front of Hogan before the American officer could get through the gate of the cooler compound, forcing Hogan to stop and look him in the face. "I have not yet dismissed you, Colonel." Thus forcibly reminded of the Kommandant's authority over him, Hogan stood there, grimly waiting.

He could tell Klink was inwardly delighted at having witnessed the American general bawling out his senior prisoner. Beyond his annoyance over Hogan's latest scheme against him, never in his wildest dreams could Klink have hoped to see his insufferable senior prisoner publicly taken down in such shameful and degrading terms by a superior officer from his own side. Klink was clearly unwilling to let his victory go without further rubbing it into Hogan's face.

"You and your men will keep away from the cooler," Klink snapped. "My standing orders are that any man who gets within 50 feet of the gate will be shot. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Hogan bit off the words.

"I may, though, allow General Barton to make an escorted inspection of the camp. I'm sure he'd like to see for himself the camp where you're senior officer."

Hogan stared stonily at the Kommandant, who was clearly relishing the idea of watching the scene inside the cooler played out again, this time in front of the whole camp. All the prisoners and guards would witness it and there would be absolutely nothing Hogan could do about it. Klink was clearly enjoying the thought of Hogan's helplessness in the face of further and far more public discipline at the hands of a superior officer.

"You might wish to put the camp in order for inspection," Klink advised in a mock-kindly way. He smiled and saluted, "Dismissed, _Colonel_."

Hogan couldn't miss Klink's emphasis, a reminder that he was not at the moment the ranking prisoner in camp. He simply returned the salute wordlessly and then turned away to stalk through the gate, welcoming the respite from Klink's crowing over him.

As he started to cross the main compound he could see Kinch, LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter hanging out over by the motor pool, no doubt expecting him to come tell them what had happened. His failure with the general would be obvious to them already – had he succeeded Barton would be accompanying him. But Hogan had no desire to repeat for them the humiliating scene inside the cooler; the only thing he wanted right now was to get to his quarters where he could lick his wounds in private.

He headed directly for the barracks, pushed through door with more force than necessary as he entered, and strode directly toward his own room. Usually he had a cheerful word for whoever was in the main room but this time he simply ignored the presence of the other men around the central table or on their bunks. He shut his own door, then stood there with his back to it, staring into space, his mind replaying Barton's furious invective over and over: "_A sellout . . . a disgrace to the uniform . . . court martial . . . filthy traitor._"Each insult had slashed into him at the time with the vicious force of a whip, and the replayed memory was as bad if not worse. And Klink watching and gloating the whole time, Schultz also in the background listening_._

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, silencing the shame and fury trying to escaping him. He wanted to put his fist through one of the walls of the barracks, to upend his desk, to destroy everything in the room – everything in the whole damned _camp_ that imprisoned him. But he couldn't. He was still in command of his unit, and that meant first and foremost being in command of himself. The walls of his office might afford him visual privacy, but they were thin and his men would overhear any noise he made in here. At the moment his one refuge seemed little better than a cage or a cell. He was so _tired_ of being shackled in one way or another, as he had been for almost two solid _years_. He had never wanted out of this miserable posting as much as he did right now. For the umpteenth time, he silently cursed Biedenbender for shooting his plane down and hoped he was by this point rotting uncomfortably in an Allied POW camp somewhere.

He paced restlessly around the small room for a while, then crossed back and threw himself down on his bunk, wondering how long he would have before his inner circle came in search of him. It was no comfort to know that they were probably getting a blow-by-blow account of Barton's reaction from Schultz right now, even if it meant that he wouldn't have to tell them himself. It also meant that in less than an hour the whole damned camp would know of his public humiliation, that when he next went out all the men he saw would know of every insult he'd had to submit to in front of Klink without any chance to defend himself.

To his surprise, his men left him alone for over two hours. He wondered if that were from tact or fear or embarrassment. Whichever it was, he was grateful for the privacy. Not that it could last long. As the hour for dinner approached he knew he had to come out and face his men. Not to do so was a sign of weakness, and he couldn't afford any more of that. Barton had undermined his position in camp quite enough: he didn't need to further sabotage his own ability to command.

He put his flight jacket back on, pausing briefly to brush his fingers over his insignia. He remembered the pride with which he'd first put them on – ages ago now. Whatever Barton might think, he'd earned them the hard way, many times over by now. He reminded himself that his men knew that, despite his failure this afternoon. London knew it too.

But one reason Barton's insults had cut so deep was that they came so perilously close to the truth of his public role as a cowed, cooperative prisoner, a role that he'd had to play frequently with Klink and other Germans in order to get the access he needed to accomplish his underground responsibilities. While he had never given the Germans any information on the Allied war effort during interrogation, no matter how harsh it had gotten, since his internment at Stalag 13 he had told Klink about supposed escape attempts, had offered his men's labor for work details outside camp, had ordered his men to cook for and serve Klink's visitors – always to further the aims of his underground activities, though with extra food, showers, heat, and light for his men required as the official price. In short, he had acted like he had given up and was collaborating on some minor levels, and that was how the Luftwaffe perceived him.

Fine, that suited his purposes. But once Barton was back in London, was that what his public reputation among his fellow U.S. Army officers would become, except among the very few privy to the classified information about his mission here in Germany?

He had always suspected that London would keep the operation here a secret after the war. But how far would they go to do that? How much of his personal reputation would they require for him to sacrifice in order to maintain that secrecy? Assuming he survived the war (which was still a major assumption, he admitted grimly to himself), would he have to live afterwards with the public persona of a "sellout, a traitor, a disgrace to the uniform"?

He had never anticipated glory from this assignment: that was something only starry-eyed kid recruits expected, and it got beaten out of them by the realities of war pretty quickly. He was just doing a hard job that had to be done, because Hitler and the Third Reich absolutely had to be defeated as quickly as possible, and it was frequently a dirty job as well. But he was the only one in place to do it, with the team he had built, and he did feel a justified pride in the work he and his men had accomplished to help the Allies and shorten the war. So being expected to bear a public stigma of shame instead would cut deep.

Surely his superiors wouldn't demand that he be publicly branded as a traitor – they wouldn't go along with Barton's plans for a court martial, so they'd have to tell him _something_ to keep him quiet . . . wouldn't they? But the operation was highly classified even now, and overseen primarily by British intelligence, not the American military. Building on his liaison work with the R.A.F. in the early part of the war, Hogan's closest contacts for the last two years now had been in British intelligence. Distanced from the American high command, to almost all American officers his rank and above he was merely an unfortunate casualty of a bombing raid from early on in the war. So how much about the set-up here would the British be willing to tell Barton? Would it be enough to really change the general's mind? If Barton was left unsatisfied, he could still unofficially destroy Hogan's reputation among the rest of the U.S. Army Air Corps officers just by telling the story of his own experience in Stalag 13.

But Hogan knew there could also be more widespread repercussions than the cost of his own personal reputation: Barton's actions could also affect his men's fate after the war, assuming they all also survived it. If London kept the operation classified, that meant that his men's heroism and sacrifice might go unacknowledged by their superiors at the end of the war, or perhaps their valor and gallantry might be merely privately acknowledged yet publicly denied. And they too might be unofficially accused of collaboration. They might all have to live their lives with a public reputation as cowards or helpless victims from the camp with no escapes whose senior officer had collaborated with the enemy – and all because they had volunteered to stay in camp to follow him in this crazy scheme. The idea was as bitter as ashes in his mouth.

Well, that issue was for the future, if they even had one after the war: he couldn't do anything about it now. His unit had a mission to complete, and he was still in command. He would carry it out, get Barton safely out of Germany and back to London, and prove to himself, at any rate, and to London, and by God perhaps to Barton too – _if_ Headquarters would bother telling the general who had gotten him out of the Krauts' clutches – just how little he deserved any of the degradation he'd had to take without protest in front of an enemy officer. He zipped up his jacket, settled his hat on his head, took a deep breath, pulled up his chin, and walked into the main room.


	5. Chapter 5

About five men were sitting around the central table: Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter, Saunders, and Pike. Garlotti was perched on his bunk looking down at them, and another half dozen were scattered by or on their bunks as usual, including Moretti, the new "Houlihan." Kinch was nowhere in sight, which meant he was probably down in the radio room. They all looked up, but Hogan avoided meeting their eyes and moved over to the window, cracking it to get a glance at the compound. He didn't expect to see anything of importance, and he didn't; he was just buying a little more time, still trying to figure out what to say to them. He could hear Newkirk's voice, but it was deliberately pitched low enough so that he couldn't make out the words. Great – so now his men were talking about him behind his back while he was in the same room.

The sudden noise of the trap door to the tunnel distracted everyone, and he turned to see Kinch climb up the ladder. Kinch glanced around uneasily, his glance lighting on his commanding officer and his eyebrows rising slightly, obviously a bit surprised to see the colonel in the common room rather than still in his office. Hogan lifted his head slightly, and Kinch came towards him, ignoring the other men.

"More orders from London, Colonel," he spoke quietly, unspoken sympathy in his quiet gaze. He shook his head and added, "Boy, are they in a sweat."

Hogan took the paper Kinch offered, unfolded it and read it, careful to keep his face straight as he did so. He read it twice, then aware of all the eyes on him, he read it aloud. "'Arrange escape of General Barton at any cost.'"

"Aww, they must be jokin'. What, him in that special cell with all them ruddy guards? No thanks. Let 'im stay in that bleedin' cell for the rest of the war," Newkirk muttered.

Despite inwardly feeling heartened by Newkirk's loyalty to him and sharing something of the same desire, Hogan couldn't let such insubordinate talk stand. His own frustration with both London and Barton made his voice more caustic than he intended. "May I remind you that we're still under orders – and this is an order," he snapped, frowning at Newkirk.

"But the field marshal's coming tomorrow. That leaves just tonight. That's no time for tunnels, no time for anything. How're we gonna get him out of that cell, let alone to London?" Carter's voice rose in pitch from his own frustration.

Though it was the last thing the young sergeant would have intended, his comment bitterly reminded Hogan of his own failure earlier to secure Barton's release from the cooler. If he'd only succeeded in that, following the rest of London's orders would be a lot easier. He began pacing restlessly, staring at the floor, trying to think, but for once he was completely dry of ideas.

"It would seem, _Colonel_, that this time there are just no more tricks left in the bag," LeBeau said gloomily, unconsciously echoing his CO's thoughts.

Kinch sighed. "Well, it had to come to this sooner or later." When the others looked at him curiously, he elaborated. "Sure, we got by all this time without anybody getting hurt. But there's not one of us here that hasn't known inside that the day would come we'd have to lay it on the line."

LeBeau asked bleakly, "Well, is that it then? A direct attack?"

Hogan shook his head. That was the last thing that would work. Even if they managed to get Barton out of the cooler and out of camp with him and themselves still alive – and that was a highly unlikely "if" – they would never get him out of Germany that way. They'd all be shot before they got five miles. He had to come up with something else . . . but _what?_

Newkirk knelt down, pulled up a floorboard that covered a secret stash of light weapons, and pulled one out. "A lousy pistol," he growled. "I'd like to swap it for a tank."

Hogan froze in midstep, then lifted his head and whirled to stare at Newkirk, a brilliant smile starting on his face. He could always count on his men to give him inspiration. "Wait a minute – that's it!" he grinned, as The Plan grew in his head, shining and beautiful.

Newkirk stared at his commanding officer in total disbelief. "A _tank_?"

"No, a swap. We'll give them a German general for an American general. An even swap."

"But _Colonel_," LeBeau interrupted tentatively, "we don't seem to have a German general in stock."

"But we will have. Klink told me that Field Marshall Von Heinke is flying here from Berlin tomorrow afternoon. We'll grab him on his way to camp."

"Us prisoners of the Germans are gonna capture a German field marshal in broad daylight?" The uncertainty in Carter's voice clearly suggested that he thought his commanding officer had lost his marbles. The expressions on the faces of the rest of the team suggested they shared his opinion.

"Exactly," Hogan grinned. "I knew you'd understand. Seems only fair, since the Krauts have gone to all the trouble of giving us just what we need."

ooOoo

It was one of the Papa Bear's most daring plans, and depended on careful timing. Though it took ages that evening to hammer out all the details, by the time they all headed to bed (hours after the official lights out), Hogan felt reasonably certain it could all work. London had okayed their role in it, though Kinch had intimated that they also thought Papa Bear had finally "gone 'round the bend" on this one. But the stakes were high enough that they were on board. It just remained to Hogan to engineer the set of events.

It started the next day at morning roll call. Klink naturally spent a long time crowing over Stalag 13 being chosen to guard "an important Allied officer" because of its escape-proof record.

Hogan retorted, "And here I thought it was because the plane crashed just fifteen miles from here."

This was, of course, quite true, but Klink didn't like the devaluation of his record, and he disliked Hogan's tone and the loud hoots of the men even more.

"Insolence! I will not tolerate this! Colonel Hogan, I expect you to control your tongue and your men! Since the cooler is unavailable, you can all spend the day confined to the barracks. We'll see if you all still think the Colonel's remarks as funny at evening roll call." The men responded to this punishment with the expected grumbles and cat calls. Klink made his "Iron Fist" gesture at them, then called out, "Diiissss-misssed!"

Now free from the expectation that they would be in view out in the compound during the day, Hogan and his men wasted no time in suiting up for their two major tasks of the day: first, freeing Captain Ross, the officer from the general's crew who had been brought to camp the previous day and who was now scheduled to be transferred from Stalag 13 to the Dulag Luft today, and second, capturing Field Marshal Von Heinke as he traveled toward Stalag 13. This time the team included not only the five core members, but also Lieutenant Stevens, who had volunteered once Hogan had explained the requirements of the mission to him.

"This is a volunteer mission only. If it succeeds, you'll be back in England a lot faster. But it could get you killed too – our usual route to the coast would be safer," Hogan had warned him.

Stevens had just grinned easily. "But something could go wrong on the usual route too, and besides, your objective is worth it. Since I got shot down I figure I'm living on borrowed time – may as well do something useful with it. Besides, you said when I tried to leave earlier that getting there is half the fun! So let's get to work on what I need to know." Hogan had smiled back and clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder. He had been enormously relieved that Stevens was willing: the plan would have been much harder to implement without his help.

The team now moved out cautiously in pairs, since the guards were still on alert: Carter and LeBeau first, in Wehrmacht uniforms as a captain and sergeant, then Newkirk and Kinch, in sabotage blacks, then Hogan and Stevens, Hogan in black and Stevens in a hastily retailored Luftwaffe uniform. With any luck it would be seen by any Germans only from a distance. They all rendezvoused a mile from camp at an old barn, where they had stored an Opel Blitz truck. They had snitched it from a convoy they had sabotaged several months earlier, Hogan figuring they could use it at times when it was difficult to get one from the motor pool. Carter and LeBeau sat up front while the others piled in the back, the canvas flaps pulled closed to hide them. When they reached their chosen point twelve miles from camp, they dropped Kinch as the lookout for the truck carrying Ross. Then the rest traveled another half mile further ahead to set up a checkpoint as the trap. About 35 minutes later, Kinch signaled via walkie-talkie the truck's impending arrival, and the team got ready for action.

When the truck came into view, Carter and LeBeau moved to the center of the road and waved the truck down. "Orders and papers, please," Carter asked in his best German. He took his time looking over them, leisurely asking questions about their destination, complaining about road conditions, and making chitchat. While Carter was keeping the driver and guard busy, Newkirk and Hogan slipped to the back of the truck to free Ross. Lifting the flaps of the truck, Hogan raised his finger to his lips to signal silence. Handcuffed to the bench, the captain stared at them in surprise, especially at Hogan's face. Fortunately, he was as quick on the uptake as he had been the day before: he nodded and obeyed Hogan's signal for silence as Newkirk swiftly picked the lock on the cuffs. Now free from his shackles, Ross wasted no time easing off the truck with them to melt into the cover of the woods.

Once the truck had gone on its way, and Carter and Newkirk came to join them, Ross demanded an explanation. "You're the officer I saw at Stalag 13 yesterday – Colonel Hogan, right? How did you get out of that camp? Don't get me wrong, sir, I'm grateful to be out of the Krauts' clutches, but what the hell is going on?"

Hogan grinned. "We thought you might like to get back to England this evening. Are you up for it?"

"Are you kidding?" Ross asked, his face lighting up.

Hogan's face sobered. "No. I'm dead serious. But it's dangerous – this is no cakewalk. If you can pull off what I have in mind, with the help of Lieutenant Stevens here, you'll not only get back tonight but you'll help get Barton back for the Allies as well."

Ross nodded decisively. "Then I'm in, whatever your plan. But sir – what _is_ your plan?"

"Good man." Hogan clapped him lightly on the back. "Let's get in the truck. I'll explain it to you on our way."

They all piled back into their truck, and Carter maneuvered it along the road, careful not to go too fast and catch up to the transfer truck. The last thing they wanted to do was do anything that might get the drivers checking on their supposedly locked-up prisoner. They all breathed a bit easier once they came to the next intersection and turned onto the Hammelburg Road.

Now in the back of the truck, LeBeau doffed his German uniform and slid into his black camouflage trousers and sweater. In about 15 more minutes, they came to the part of the road Hogan had designated for the next part of the plan, where the road cut through high banks, just past a turn with heavy scrub and bushes as well as some trees on either side. They hid the truck a little further along on a side road, then backtracked. Carter went further on up the road with the walkie-talkie, still in his German uniform. While LeBeau kept watch, Hogan chose a tree by the roadbed big enough to fully block the road when felled, then Kinch and Newkirk took it in turns to work on cutting it down, stopping shortly before the trunk was ready to fall. Fortunately, the road was little frequented and they only had to hide once from another vehicle. Hogan kept checking the time.

"All right, if our contact at the air field was right, the Field Marshal should be along in the next half hour. Let's hope he will and no one else will be."

They crouched down beside the road and waited, Hogan and LeBeau on the side of the road to match the passenger side of the vehicle, Kinch and Newkirk on the driver's side, Carter down the road with the walkie-talkie to signal when the car came. Lt. Stevens and Captain Ross sat further back in the bushes, out of sight but not earshot, conferring in whispers over the set of instructions Hogan's team had worked up for them.

The walkie-talkie squawked, and Carter's filtered voice came over it. "Here they come. Just two of them, the general in the back seat, passenger side, and the driver up front. Over and out."

"Roger, over and out," Hogan answered. He signaled Kinch, who gave three final cuts to the tree. A push from him and Newkirk and it crashed down across the road. As the echoes from the fall died away, they all waited in silence, muscles tense, hardly breathing. A few moments later they could hear the growl of the car engine. Hogan watched carefully as the vehicle braked sharply, coming to a stop a couple of feet short of the tree trunk. This was it . . . everything rode on the next few minutes.

The driver got out and stared dismally at the fallen tree, then looked back worriedly at the car, inside which Von Heinke was observing the situation attentively.

C'mon, Hogan thought, get out of the car. He can't move that tree by himself.

The field marshal came to that conclusion after the driver hunched down to tug futilely at the tree. Von Heinke got out of the car and walked over to the tree, then stooped to lift his end of it.

That was the signal. Hogan and LeBeau flashed out to grab the general, LeBeau giving him a swift paralyzing chop on the neck while Hogan grabbed the stunned man and lowered him to the ground. Simultaneously, Kinch jumped the driver and seized him in a choke hold. Just before Newkirk delivered a knockout punch, Kinch said, imitating the upper-crust British accent he heard from their handler in London so often, "A little present from the British commandoes!"

Newkirk was not amused. "I'll 'andle the English accent, if you don't mind!" Kinch just grinned at him in response.

"Get the pack," Hogan ordered LeBeau, who disappeared back into the bushes and brought out a small backpack they had brought with them from camp. He signaled Ross and Stevens, who crept out to join them on the road. Hogan delved into the pack and pulled out a small case. Snapping it open, he took one of the three syringes that their medic had loaded in it, then plunged it into Von Heinke's arm. He handed the case off to Kinch, who repeated the maneuver with the driver.

"That sedative will keep them under for a good while," the colonel promised Ross and Stevens as everyone relaxed just slightly. "Okay, let's get the driver stripped."

Getting the clothes off the driver's inert body was no easy task, but Newkirk and LeBeau soon had him down to his skivvies. Carter, arriving from lookout duty, was able to give them a hand. Captain Ross pulled off his own uniform, exchanging it for the driver's as they tossed him the various parts. Fortunately the two men were about the same height, although Ross had to tighten the belt significantly for the trousers to fit his lean frame. Meanwhile, Hogan and Kinch and Stevens lifted the unconscious general back into the back passenger seat of the car. Stevens, already in German uniform, got in the back seat with him, while Ross took the driver's place.

"Okay, you're set." Hogan looked at the captain and lieutenant. "Any last questions?"

"No, sir. We follow this road back to the airfield. The supervisor there is your contact and is expecting us, though we're to avoid contact with him and anyone else if at all possible. He's made sure the plane the general came on is refueled and is parked near the airstrip, according to standard operating procedure. It's a very small field and chances are good that we won't run into anyone, but if we do we show them the papers you gave us and Stevens just tells them the field marshal was taken ill, and we're getting him back to his doctor in Berlin," Ross answered.

"I can fly anything with wings!" Stevens boasted confidently. Then he grinned a little sheepishly. "Not that the crash course on German aircraft you fellas gave me won't help." Sensing the colonel's tension, he added seriously, "Don't you worry, sir. I'll get us all to England."

Hogan nodded. "Don't forget to radio on the frequency Kinch gave you, so the Allied forces will know who you are. When you get to the coast you should pick up an escort that'll accompany you to the landing field." He handed them the small case. "Keep the field marshal unconscious. Use the extra syringe if he starts to come around. You _cannot_ afford for him to come to and struggle while you're flying that plane. So keep him in restraints once you're in it, to be on the safe side." Newkirk handed through the window the handcuffs he'd taken off Ross earlier. Ross pocketed them with a smile, appreciating the irony.

"Anything else?" the colonel asked. They shook their heads, very serious now. Hogan swallowed: this was the hard part of the plan, when the action would be entirely out of his hands. It all depended now on how much pluck and savvy Ross and Stevens possessed, and how well his team had trained Stevens to carry out the plan since they had worked it out the previous night. So he simply added, "Thanks, gentlemen, and good luck."

"We're the ones who owe you and your team thanks, Colonel. We'll get him to London, sir, you can count on it," Stevens promised, adding a snappy salute, seconded by Ross.

Hogan nodded, returned the salute, and stepped back from the car. Ross carefully turned it around, then stepped on the gas and they were off. His heart in his mouth, Hogan watched them disappear around the bend in the road, and then looked grimly at his team.

"Do we move the tree?" LeBeau asked.

"No," Hogan said curtly. Then he added, "It'll slow down any pursuit from this direction. Get the driver off the road and out of sight of anyone passing by. He should be out for a good three or four hours. That'll give them plenty of time to get that plane out of the country – I hope."

Once the driver was safely stowed further back in the cover of the woods, they double checked the area to ensure that they'd left no traces behind.

"Back to camp," Hogan ordered. "Move out."


	6. Chapter 6

The trip back to camp was accomplished in near silence, as Hogan's somber mood infected everyone else. Carter, alone in the driver's seat up front, had no one to rattle on to. In back, Newkirk initially grinned at LeBeau but got no further than, "Well, chaps," when a light kick, a severe frown, and a headshake from Kinch, with a meaningful glance over at the colonel, who sat silent and abstracted next to him, silenced the Englishman. With a sigh, Newkirk leaned back against the side of the truck and kept quiet, LeBeau likewise resting mutely beside him.

Hogan's mind kept running on the timeline of the operation. Could Stevens and Ross pull off the escape in the field marshal's plane? Surely they were at airfield by now. . . . If they were stopped and questioned, or if they had trouble reading the plane's instrumentation, or if they were pursued before they got over the Channel, or if they weren't recognized by their own side and were shot down . . . there were so many ways it could all go wrong. He shook himself slightly, trying to shake off the dark thoughts. It had to work. It just had to. If it didn't . . . the costs would be unimaginable. And all on his head.

Finally the truck arrived back at its hiding place. As soon as it was stowed, Newkirk set off first as scout, followed shortly by LeBeau and Carter, and finally Kinchloe and Hogan. They filtered silently through the woods, alert for patrols. Hogan heaved a sigh of relief as he and Kinch, bringing up the rear, at last climbed down the ladder and into the safety of the tunnel.

The first order of business was to make sure that the base was okay. "How did everything go here?" he immediately asked Corporal Farrell, who was manning the radio in Kinch's absence, as they emerged from the emergency tunnel into the larger radio room.

"Fine, sir, no problems. The guys from Barracks 14 and 15 had Schultz chasing around trying to track down where he'd left his gun. He was so distracted that he never got around to coming into Barrack 2 to check on us! So your absence wasn't even noticed." He smiled reassuringly.

"That's the ticket to success, gents: first-rate distractions from the real business at 'and," Newkirk proclaimed expansively as the others grinned appreciatively and traded looks. "Key to me career as a magician, what I learned from ol' Nokes when I was apprenticed to 'im: keep their eye on the birdie while the 'and does the trick. It reminds me of the time—"

"Save it for your memoirs," Hogan snapped, squelching their high spirits. "We haven't succeeded, not until that plane is in England. _If_ all went well, they've been airborne for almost an hour by now. But it'll be another three hours at least before they get to England, _if_ they don't run into any trouble. And there's no telling how long it will be until London lets us know that they made it. Get changed and upstairs, on the double," he ordered. "If Schultz hasn't come along yet to check on us, he will any moment. We just got lucky so far."

The colonel was clearly keyed up, and no one wanted to take any chances in further rousing his temper. They all quickly obeyed, though Kinch stayed below for a few more moments to set up a schedule with Farrell for monitoring the radio.

Kinch had barely gotten back upstairs when Schultz did come into the barrack. "_Ach_, it is a nice afternoon outside. You should not have made the Kommandant so angry this morning," he chided them as he lumbered over to the stove, sniffing appreciatively.

"That's our lunch," LeBeau protested, moving protectively between the Sergeant and the pot of simmering bean soup he had started that morning before they left.

"Maybe just a little taste? To make sure it came out well?" Schultz pleaded.

LeBeau sighed but gave in, dipping a spoon in and holding it out for Schultz to taste. Schultz slurped it up, closed his eyes, twitched his mouth right, then left. "Mmmm . . . hmmmm . . . maybe a _little_ more salt . . . and that rosemary you put in last time. . . ."

"Fine. You get me some and I'll add it." LeBeau snatched the spoon and pushed the guard away from the stove. "That's it for now. Go on, Schultzie, give _us_ a chance to eat." Obediently, Schultz took himself off; he had long ago learned that it was unwise to annoy LeBeau in matters of food.

Everyone gathered their bowls to have some soup. Hogan, though, couldn't settle down long enough to eat. Instead, he paced up and down the main room, and around the table. Some desultory talk started up a couple of times, but petered out each time Hogan stalked near the men conversing.

"'Ow about a nice game of gin?" Newkirk suggested once they'd finished eating, hoping to distract his commanding officer, but Hogan just waved his hand irritably in a manner that rather alarmingly reminded everyone of Klink, and went back to pacing. He was driving everyone crazy, but given that they were confined to the barrack for the day no one could suggest that the colonel go outside to work off his nervous energy, and no one was foolhardy enough to suggest to his face that he go down to the tunnel, or into his office. Twice he did wander into his quarters, each time to everyone's relief, but he didn't stay long and was soon back out and roaming restlessly around the table and checking on what was happening in the compound through the windows.

Klink was edgy too: the field marshal was long overdue for his appointment. Carter, on watch at the window by his bunk in an attempt to stay out of Hogan's way, noted that the Kommandant kept coming out on the porch of the Kommandantur about every five minutes, staring at the gate and the road beyond it and swishing his swagger stick sharply, tapping it against his right boot, obviously impatient for his upcoming moment of glory in front of the cameras.

The afternoon dragged on.

Nearly three hours since their return had passed when Carter called out, "Hey, looks like the field marshal's driver has arrived!" Everyone gathered around the windows to see the figure in white underwear hopping up and down outside the gate. The sight provoked quite a few grins and chuckles. They'd left him barefoot, to slow him down further, and the four-mile walk had clearly left him footsore. The driver was also simultaneously furious and terrified about his news, given the frantic shouting they could overhear: "_Herr Oberst! Herr Oberst!_ General Von Heinke has been captured by British commandoes!" Kinch grinned and punched Newkirk's arm lightly, as the Englishman rolled his eyes.

The Kommandant, drawn back out on the porch by the fuss the driver was making, abruptly realized the import of what the man was shouting. Klink turned absolutely white, but immediately set the camp guards in motion. "Sound the alarm! Get into formation! Schultz! Schultz! Release the dogs! I don't want to leave a stone unturned! Schultz! We'll show them a thing or two! I want every one of those commandoes caught and brought into my office! Sergeant Schultz! Where is Sergeant Schultz? Get Sergeant Schultz! Sergeant Schultz! Get Sergeant– _Schultz!_ Where have you been? On the Hammelburg Road! He'll show you. Let's go!"

Klink was gesturing frantically for the guards to follow the driver to the scene of the kidnapping. But the driver needed a uniform, or at the very least some clothes and shoes, and getting him dressed, plus getting trucks ready to move out, slowed the guards down further. Watching the chaos provoked some chuckles – at least from everyone but Hogan, who sharply watched the events in the compound through the window, his arms wrapped tensely around his torso. Finally a truck full of guards took off, supervised by Schultz, while Klink headed back to his office to confront the unhappy task of informing his superiors that Field Marshal Von Heinke had been captured by commandoes and his location was unknown.

"I'll be in my office listening to Klink on the coffeepot," Hogan announced.

"Want a second pair of ears?" Kinch offered. The colonel waved him in irritably; no one else even tried.

Still more waiting ensued. Newkirk talked LeBeau, Carter, Saunders, Garlotti, and Foster into a poker game, which eased the tension until Hogan eventually emerged from his office with Kinch. The colonel announced tersely, "Klink's heading off to view the site of the kidnapping himself." Carter, back at the window, confirmed Klink's departure a couple of minutes later. Hogan went back to prowling around the table. Newkirk threw a silent pleading look at Kinch, who simply shrugged and shook his head, then headed back down to the radio room. He wasn't about to interfere when the colonel was in this kind of mood: he knew the limits of his influence, and also a lost cause when he saw one.

After trading looks with Newkirk, LeBeau pulled out of his footlocker a canister of carefully hoarded real coffee that he used to stretch the ersatz coffee they got as rations. This got everyone's attention, and as the aroma percolated through the barrack Hogan finally paused by the stove. "Here, _mon Colonel_, sit down and have a cup," LeBeau suggested in his most cheerful voice. Though he privately doubted the wisdom of giving caffeine to their already hyped-up officer, he was hoping that the treat would get Hogan to unbend a little and sit down.

It worked. Hogan actually sat down at the end of the table and had stayed in one place for a full four minutes, when they all heard the knock that preceded the opening of the trap door to the tunnel.

This is it, Hogan thought, rising so swiftly that he nearly knocked the coffee mug over, then moving over to stand tensely by the bunk as Kinch climbed up. Kinch looked at him seriously for a moment, while everyone held their breath, then broke into a broad smile as he handed a communiqué to the colonel. "London's thanks and compliments, sir. They say they know just what to do with the present you sent."

That drew cheers from everyone. Hogan drew a deep breath and exhaled in relief, slumping back against the bunk as the tension drained from his body. He smiled broadly. "I'm sure they do."


	7. Chapter 7

Hogan let everyone celebrate for a few minutes. LeBeau shared the remaining coffee around and they all clinked their mugs to success. With an expansive smile, the colonel praised his crew: "That was good work, everyone, both from those outside capturing the field marshal and those who ran interference with Schultz while we were gone. Carter, be sure to convey my congratulations and thanks to the fellas in the other barracks."

"I sure will, boy! I mean, sir!" Carter answered eagerly.

The colonel turned back to business, reminding them, "The job's not done yet. We're going to have to monitor all communications going in and out of Klink's office while Barton is in camp, so we'll know what orders he gets regarding for the exchange." He looked apologetically at Kinchloe. "I'm afraid that means you'll be spending a lot of time downstairs at the switchboard."

Kinch nodded. "That's okay. We've worked out a schedule, and Farrell can spell me."

Hogan nodded. "All right then. Keep an eye on the compound, and let me know when Klink gets back. We'll listen in on the coffeepot as well. We can't afford to miss anything that affects their plans for Barton."

ooOoo

The remainder of the afternoon wore away without incident until General Burkhalter showed up in camp in the middle of roll call, livid over the kidnapping, with two other generals in tow. As soon as the correct count was established, Klink cut the roll call short to join the generals in his office; he didn't seem much in the mood to be making boastful speeches to the prisoners about the Third Reich's military superiority.

"Gee, they're pretty brave coming where another general just got captured," Carter remarked as they watched the four officers enter the Kommandantur.

"I guess they figure there's safety in numbers," LeBeau sniggered as he and the rest of the team headed into Colonel Hogan's office to listen in.

ooOoo

After Klink saw to their coats and served up drinks, Burkhalter spread out a map across Klink's desk and had the Kommandant show himself, General Krause, and General Adler exactly where the kidnapping had occurred.

"Gentlemen, this is most embarrassing. In broad daylight!" Burkhalter was still fuming.

"I still think we should send a squad to look – " Klink started to suggest.

"Shut up, Klink. Right in the middle of Germany. . . " Burkhalter seethed.

"And not a trace of him!" Adler growled, obviously equally frustrated.

"He could be anywhere by now," Krause said with a sigh.

"Yes, Herr General," Klink anxiously agreed, taking a step forward. "Herr General, may I suggest that the . . ."

Burkhalter looked up and glared at him impatiently. "Klink, be careful you don't suggest yourself all the way to the Russian front!"

Klink winced visibly and took a crestfallen step backwards to the safety of his original spot on the margins of the room – and of the conversation.

Satisfied that Klink was suitably cowed, Burkhalter turned his attention back to the map. "But we have taken steps to find them: we have put road blocks in place and cut them off here, we have cut them off there, now we must block them here!" Burkhalter insisted, tapping each of the major local roads on the map.

"Very good, Herr General!" Krause approved.

The telephone rang, cutting off conversation as Klink took the call. "No, Field Marshal Von Heinke is not here. Who is this?" he demanded. Covering the handset, he told the generals, "The field marshal's pilot is inquiring about his whereabouts. He says that the field marshal's plane is no longer at the airport!"

"Plane!" shrieked Burkhalter, swinging his alarmed gaze back and forth between the map and his fellow generals. "They cannot. . . ." He broke off in consternation as the implications grew on him. He grabbed the phone from Klink. "This is General Burkhalter. Find out who took the plane and when. NOW! Report back to me here instantly when you know. I will hold the line."

The four German officers waited in tense silence; in Hogan's office, the silence was equally tense.

"The field marshal was on the plane – you are sure? But ill . . . and with an unknown pair of pilots . . . wearing Luftwaffe uniforms. Find out all you can, then report to me here at Stalag 13. Yes, we will send a car. _Heil_ Hitler!" Burkhalter hung up and turned to Klink. "See to it that transportation is sent to the airport to pick up Von Heinke's pilot: we must find out what has happened there. But if they took a plane, they could be anywhere in Europe." He sighed heavily. "This is a most terrible day in our war effort, to have lost the field marshal, and in such a manner."

Another call came in soon afterwards, this time from Berlin. Klink handed the phone straight over to Burkhalter, who listened with very little to say beyond "I see" and "I understand" several times. When he hung up, he faced the others.

"A message from the Allied chiefs has reached Berlin. Field Marshal Von Heinke is in England; he spoke over the radio himself to confirm that he is a prisoner there. The Allied High Command has offered an exchange of their prisoner for General Barton, and our leaders have accepted the exchange." His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed as he turned to Klink and regarded him with displeasure. After a sigh of resignation, he continued, "Klink, we will send instructions on when and where to transfer General Barton when the details of the exchange have been worked out. Until then, keep him secure. Maybe at least you can manage not to lose _this_ general!"

"Yes, Herr General, I mean, of course not . . . I mean, it will be my pleasure to . . . ."

"Shut up, Klink!"


	8. Chapter 8

The next afternoon, Kinchloe climbed up the ladder into the barrack and glanced around.

_BANG!_ _Rattle rattle rattle._

Kinch heard Corporal Pike, lying on his upper bunk between the colonel's office door and the window, mutter, "He's a colonel. He's my commanding officer."

_BANG! Rattle rattle rattle._

"He's driving me absolutely nuts!" Pike moaned. "But he's a colonel, he's my commanding officer . . . ."

"You could go outside," Kinch suggested, smothering a grin as Pike glared at him. "You wouldn't hear it there."

"I was up half the night last night on guard duty, spending hours watching nothing happen over at the cooler through the periscope! I was _hoping_ . . ."

_BANG! Rattle rattle rattle._

". . . to get some sleep this afternoon," Pike sighed, staring grimly at the ceiling. He turned on his side. "Can you get him to stop, Kinch?" he implored. "Or at least shift buildings?"

"No promises. But I'll do what I can," Kinch said sympathetically. He stepped out into the bright sunlight, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

_BANG! Rattle rattle rattle . . . Thwap!_

He looked over to see Colonel Hogan standing a few feet back from the edge of the roof, a baseball caught in a glove, his body tense and his eyes focused intently on the roof, his hat sitting almost flat on top of his head, visor down, shading his eyes from the glare of the sunlight. He threw ball again, hard. _BANG!_ It hit the roof, just above Pike's bunk. Kinchloe winced. _Rattle rattle rattle_ down the roof and_ Thwap!_ into the colonel's baseball glove.

Kinch sighed, long experience enabling him to read all too easily his mercurial commanding officer's current mood. That hard throw and tight focus weren't signs of casually idling the time away; the colonel was definitely working off tension. And almost certainly completely unaware that he was keeping poor Pike from sleeping. Well, maybe the news from London would settle him down some.

Hogan glanced over at him, frowning slightly, then his eyes swept automatically around the compound to check for the presence of guards. Satisfied that they could speak without being overheard, he gestured Kinch over with a slight jerk of his head.

"London says the swap is set for two days from now, on Friday, at the Swiss border near Basel," Kinch told him. "They're asking us to let them know when General Barton is moved from this camp."

Hogan nodded. "Probably tomorrow." He threw the baseball hard back up on the roof.

_BANG! Rattle rattle rattle . . . Thwap!_

Hogan caught the ball with a quick tight snatch. Kinch, looking at the tense set of the colonel's shoulders, decided to make the inquiry that he had been wondering about for a couple of days. "Colonel, may I ask a question?"

Alerted by the phrasing, Hogan quirked an eyebrow. "You can ask," he replied warily, but his tone held no promises.

Kinch nodded. "You were the highest ranking American officer the Krauts had when you were shot down, weren't you?"

Hogan stared back at the roof and tossed the baseball back up. _Plunk . . . rattle rattle rattle_ . . . _Thwap!_ The ball landed back in his glove. "So I gather," he responded guardedly.

Kinch bit his lower lip, then forged on ahead. "Was there any attempt to swap for you?"

_**BANG!**__ Rattle rattle rattle_ . . .

Hogan watched as the ball rolled down, then caught it neatly in the glove. _Thwap!_ He stared fixedly at the roof.

Pike emerged from the barrack, with a sour look at both of them, then moved over to sit next to Foster on the bench near the door, leaning back and closing his eyes.

Just as Kinch decided that the colonel wouldn't say anything and that asking the question had been a mistake, Hogan pushed the visor of his cap back to its usual angle further back on his head, then sighed. "I had the bad luck to parachute down more or less right in the middle of an SS company on practice maneuvers. The captain in charge turned me over to a buddy of his in the Gestapo. They didn't report that they had me to either to the Luftwaffe or the Allies for," he paused and swallowed, "quite a while. By the time the U.S. high command knew I was a prisoner, not just missing or killed . . . well," he shrugged, "any information I had was old news and it wasn't really worth their while to think about an exchange, even if one could have been arranged."

Kinch held his breath: Hogan had never said much about his initial seven weeks of captivity before he was brought to Stalag 13. That was hardly surprising: no man would want to dwell on the details of the interrogation process. Kinch already knew all he needed to about the particulars of the colonel's experience. Hogan tossed the baseball back and forth between his hands a couple of times, his eyes on the barrack wall in front of him, yet obviously not seeing it. Eventually he added, "When the Luftwaffe finally got custody of me, they figured the Dulag Luft wouldn't get anything out of me that the Gestapo hadn't, so they just brought me straight here." He turned toward Kinch, met his eyes briefly, and shrugged. "You know the rest of the story."

Kinch was debating what to say further when he saw the colonel stiffen. Turning, he tracked Hogan's gaze and saw Klink coming out of the cooler compound, followed by General Barton, Schultz trailing behind them with two other guards. Klink paused and waved his hand expansively around the compound. He looked exceptionally pleased with himself. Hogan cursed softly under his breath.

"Why is he out of the cooler?" Kinch asked in alarm.

"Klink's keeping a promise to me: he's taking Barton on an inspection tour of the camp." Hogan shut his eyes momentarily, then rallied and started issuing orders. "Ten to one Klink'll get him to start with our barracks, so get in there and get any clean-up done that you see needs doing and can manage before they get in there. But first send an alert to the other barracks' chiefs; at least they'll have more time to prepare. I'll meet Klink and Barton in the compound, but I don't think I'll be able to give you much if any delay. Get moving."

"Right, sir." Kinch headed toward the door of Barrack 2 on the double, signaling to Pike and Foster who rose to meet him. Hurriedly, he passed on the colonel's message before going inside to warn the men in their own barrack. Dropping his own afternoon's disgruntlement with his commanding officer, Pike immediately adapted the prisoners' longstanding plan for spreading word of German searches for contraband to all barracks, fanning out the information and orders they had. All the men moved quickly to pass the information on and then prepare for inspection: the general's dressing down of the colonel had been the talk of the camp for two days, so it was clear to everyone that Klink taking General Barton on a tour to inspect the camp could mean nothing good for Colonel Hogan.

ooOoo

Hogan squared his shoulders and set off across the compound, intercepting Klink, Barton, and Schultz near the middle. He formally saluted the two officers, Klink grinning in delight as he returned the salute, but Barton pausing before grudgingly responding, glowering at his fellow American as he sketched the barest of salutes in return.

"I thought that General Barton could use some fresh air and would want to see our little camp before he leaves us tomorrow morning," Klink said gleefully.

You thought he could use a chance to gather information for the court martial he said he's planning for me, Hogan snarled silently. Aloud, he answered, "Of course, sir," hoping that his voice was calm as he looked straight at the general. Inwardly he also noted to himself Klink's confirmation of Barton's departure time; he had to remember to pass that on to Kinch. "What would you like to start with?" he inquired, careful to keep his tone respectful. "The mess hall, the workshops, the laundry, the recreation hall, or the barracks?"

"Oh, the barracks, of course! We can start with yours." Klink's eyes gleamed; he was clearly looking forward to this.

There was no getting out of it, and the grim look on Barton's face forbade any overt delay. "Then this way, gentlemen." Hogan headed toward Barrack 2. The general followed in silence, while Kink burbled along, pausing briefly a couple of times as he boasted about the camp's layout, its efficiencies, and – over and over again – the no-escape record. Schultz trudged dutifully along behind them to keep an eye on the general, the other two guards behind him.

Hogan opened the door to Barrack 2; he heard Kinch's voice call out "Ten-hut!" As he stepped into the barrack he saw all his men standing rigidly at attention. They'd had barely three minutes to prepare, but they had all become masters at fast clean up to avoid detection from the Krauts. This time they had worked a minor miracle: laundry lines were down, all stray clothes and detritus had been swept off the bunks, all blankets neatly laid across them, and there was no sign of any cooking equipment near the stove, not even the coffee kettle. Hogan hoped Barton wouldn't try looking in the footlockers where he was certain most of the stuff had been hastily shoved. The floor, though swept that morning, showed the day's dirt tracked in from the compound; there had been no time to sweep – much less mop – in preparation for the general's visit. At least LeBeau kept the stove in a high state of cleanliness and wasn't in the middle of any complex cooking operation this afternoon. Hogan moved past the stove, near the door to his quarters, and adopted a formal at-attention stance himself.

"Now this is a fairly typical barrack," Kink pontificated, "except of course it has the ranking officer's quarters in it, so space for five fewer men." Barton's eyes swept around the room and over the door that led into Hogan's office. He turned to his right and began to look over the furnishings and the men, surveying the stove, the lockers, the sink with the cracked mirror over it, the dusty floor. He glanced past Saunders standing next to his bunk in his Royal Australian Air Force uniform, then pushed open the door to Hogan's quarters, stepping inside. Klink followed.

Hogan remained in place; he had not been invited to join them and was not chancing the general's temper. He knew his own bunk was neatly made and his desk clear, with only the camp work assignments schedule sitting on it; years in the military had ensured neat habits. The side table was somewhat cluttered, and what Barton would make of the pictures his men had given him to enliven his walls, he had no idea. He heard the click of the footlocker under his window being opened, then the lid being let fall shut, footsteps moving around, then the distinctive squeak of the locker by his sink opening. Hope you're enjoying the view of my long underwear, extra shirt, and shaving gear, he thought in annoyance, then clamped down on the thought. This wasn't the time for sarcasm, even inwardly.

Barton and Klink came back out, and Barton resumed his tour of the room, stepping past Hogan as if he weren't even there. He also bypassed Chapman in his Royal Canadian Air Force uniform as well as LeBeau with barely a glance, but he stopped at Garlotti, looking him up and down closely. He's only interested in the Americans, Hogan realized. Anger that Barton didn't think the others worth his time flashed through the colonel, abruptly short-circuited as he glanced past Garlotti. The next American in line. . . .

Barton stopped short as he looked at Kinchloe.

Oh dear God, Hogan thought.


	9. Chapter 9

Barton's voice didn't sound southern, but Hogan had no idea what his views on segregation and race relations might be, and this was a dangerous way to find out. I should have sent Kinch to warn the other barracks, kept him out of Barton's sight, Hogan reflected, furious with himself for not having thought ahead to this. But it was too late now for second thoughts; they were going to have to deal with whatever Barton did or said.

Barton turned to Klink. "I thought you said the prisoners in this camp were all airmen from northern Europe, not the Italian front," he snapped.

Klink looked bewildered at the question. "Indeed. It would make no sense to transport prisoners so far. Why do you ask?"

Barton ignored Klink's question to turn back to Kinchloe, frowning. "Sergeant, what's your name and just how did you come to be in this camp?"

"Sir, I'm Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe. I was a last-minute substitute for a sick navigator on the mission I was shot down on," Kinch replied. It was hardly an answer to Barton's question, though, since it raised the question of who had deputized Kinch as a stand-in and where he had gotten enough training to be a replacement.

Barton noticed the omission. "Who commanded that mission, Sergeant?"

Kinchloe answered slowly, "Major Michael Friedman."

Barton folded his hands behind his back and lifted his chin as he stood silent a minute, then asked, "What happened to Major Friedman and the other crew members on your flight?"

Kinch swallowed. "Major Friedman didn't make it out of the plane, sir. Four of us bailed out. I was captured immediately by a farmer, who brought me straight here to Stalag 13. I haven't seen the other three since."

Barton pursed his lips slightly, looking searchingly at Kinchloe who returned his gaze as steadily as he could. He lingered for a moment longer, questions still in his eyes, but then moved on, looking at Greenberg standing next to Kinch.

Hogan flicked his eyes over to Kinch, to find his second in command watching him, clearly unsure if he'd handled the situation right. Hogan dipped his chin slightly in a fraction of a nod. They had gotten lucky so far. Barton hadn't pushed it as he could have, so maybe for him the uniform was ultimately more important than the color of the man inside it. Just maybe. Of course, if Barton was a segregationist, Kinch's presence in Hogan's barrack would be yet another black mark in the general's book against the colonel. But what worried Hogan far more was that if Barton wanted to he could make life very difficult for Kinchloe when the war was over. And he could all too easily get support for that position from other American officers back in London. There were plenty who wouldn't stand for integration.

Don't borrow trouble, Hogan told himself wearily, watching as Barton finished with Greenberg then moved on to give Carter an intense look over. You're forewarned, so you'll be prepared if you need to be. Deal with it _if_ it becomes a problem. Maybe it won't be. But he wasn't feeling optimistic about the likelihood of that, despite Barton having backed off on Kinch for the moment.

Another worry suddenly stabbed him as Barton shifted his attention to Moretti. Klink might realize that he couldn't place the Italian-American from an internment interview: given his short height, he was not the most average of American men and thus stood out more than Hogan felt comfortable with. But fortunately, on that score at least, Klink was too busy extracting every moment of enjoyment from Hogan's discomfiture over the general's inspection to pay much attention to the enlisted men in the barrack.

Having finished his circuit around Barrack 2, Barton turned to Klink. "You'll show me the rest of the camp now, Colonel Klink?" he asked expressionlessly.

Klink's self-satisfied grin dimmed somewhat. "Of course, General Barton. But, er, don't you want Colonel Hogan to accompany us?" he inquired hopefully.

"No," Barton snapped.

Klink sighed, clearly disappointed. "As you wish then. This way, General." He indicated the door, which Schultz opened for them, and led the general outside. Schultz and the guards followed, then the door banged shut behind them.

"At ease," Hogan called out immediately, and everyone broke formation with a sigh, looking uncertainly at the colonel. He took a deep breath. "You all did a good job in getting this place cleaned up on next to no notice." Several of the men smiled, relieved at their commander's praise, but most remained somber, troubled by Barton's rudeness to Colonel Hogan and his unsettling focus on Kinchloe.

Hogan continued, "LeBeau, Carter, keep an eye on General Barton. See where he goes, make sure he doesn't run into any trouble, one of you report back here instantly if he does. Saunders, check with Pike and Foster to see if all the other barracks got word about the inspection. Get teams to check the laundry, mess hall, and rec hall to make sure they're in as good a shape as can be managed too. Newkirk, check in with the other barracks once Barton has been there, find out how the inspection seemed to go. All of you, coordinate reports with Kinch here in our barrack."

"Yes sir, Colonel," Newkirk answered for all of them, his voice subdued.

"I'll be putting together the work assignments schedule," Hogan finished up, then turned and entered his office, closing the door behind him.

ooOOoo

Everyone looked worriedly at Kinch. "You heard the colonel," the staff sergeant said. "Get on it."

"But – " Carter started.

"Carter, the very best thing you can do for the colonel right now is to show you respect him by following his orders," Kinch said firmly.

That advice hit home with everyone. "Right. Well, we've given the brass enough of a head start, let's get on with this." Newkirk nodded, with a jerk of his head to Carter and LeBeau, who fell in behind him as he headed out the door. Saunders likewise beckoned for Garlotti and Chapman to come with him, and they all scattered out the door.

Kinchloe sighed as the remaining men in the barrack looked at him, wondering what they should do. Better to keep everyone busy. "The rest of you get this place cleaned up more, in case the general decides to come back. Get the stuff put away properly and the floor cleaned, for starters." The others nodded and began moving around to open footlockers and cabinets, putting things to rights. Kinch bit his lip and stared at the colonel's closed door. Go in and check on him, or give him some privacy?

After a few moments' consideration, he finally elected to consult with Hogan. They needed to discuss what had happened in regard to his own position; Kinch knew his presence had made the colonel's situation more problematic, and he was kicking himself for having been in such a rush to inform the rest of the guys that he hadn't thought of the obvious difficulty.

He knocked on the colonel's office door and heard a tired "Come in." He pushed it open and stepped in.

Hogan was sitting on the stool at the bench he used as a desk, staring at the work schedule in front of him, the short list of men to be disciplined with extra chores sitting next to it. He turned and looked up at Kinch silently, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.

Kinch came to the point immediately. "Colonel, I'm sorry I blew it – "

"Hold it right there. You don't have anything to apologize for," Hogan interrupted.

Kinchloe shook his head impatiently. "I should've thought of what it might mean for the general to notice me."

"No, Kinch, thinking ahead is my job. If I'd been focusing like I should have, I'd have sent you to get the word out to the camp, and Pike or Foster in here, and not have put you in that position in the first place." Hogan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"You put me in charge of operations and made me your second in command, even if I'm not an officer: that makes it my job too," Kinch insisted.

Hogan just shook his head. "It doesn't really matter at this point, Kinch. Barton dropped it, which is a good sign, plus he's leaving tomorrow, so he can't really make much trouble about it here."

"No, just back at headquarters," Kinch muttered.

"They have more important things to worry about. Let it go, Kinch. It's out of our hands, so there's no point in us worrying about it either. If there's a problem at war's end, well, we'll deal with it then."

"Colonel, how much trouble can Barton cause for you?" Kinch asked hesitantly.

Hogan shrugged. "Probably not much. London'll tell him something or other about what we're doing here, and that'll be the end of it."

Kinch nodded, not entirely persuaded by Hogan's vague answer on the more important question but unwilling to keep pressing his C.O. on it.

Hogan shifted topic. "Klink confirmed earlier that Barton leaves tomorrow. You can let London know during this evening's check-in. Tell them we'll confirm tomorrow when he does leave."

"Will do, sir." He hesitated, wanting to say more somehow, but unsure what more might help. "Well, I'll get back out there and keep track of the teams in the compound," he finally settled for saying, taking his own advice to the others from a few minutes earlier.

"Thanks, Kinch," Hogan said quietly, looking back down at the schedule as the sergeant left and softly closed the door behind him.

_Author's note: Barton asks Klink about Italy because the Tuskegee Airmen had flown only in the Mediterranean Theater (particularly Sicily) at this point in the war. (I'm dating this April 1944.) Later, after D-Day, they also escorted bombing raids over central and northern Europe. Kinchloe's presence in a camp for captured airmen is thus an anomaly in Barton's eyes. I've changed canon in suggesting that Kinch is the only African American prisoner in this Luftwaffe camp at this point in the war – which is why I have not used Baker in the story._


	10. Chapter 10

The teams reported back that Barton seemed to be doing a thorough inspection of the entire camp: besides the rec hall, workshop, infirmary, laundry, and latrines, he spent times going through many of the barracks, though there didn't seem to be any particular pattern to which ones he was choosing. As in Barrack 2, he focused almost exclusively on the American prisoners, which some of the prisoners from Great Britain, the British Commonwealth, and other European nations found rather insulting.

"Probably doesn't know what our uniforms are supposed to look like for inspection," Newkirk remarked drily at this news. "Can't expect an 'igh-ranking officer like 'im to keep track of details like that when 'e's got a war to run."

Several barracks chiefs commented that the general had frequently asked American soldiers how well and often they ate, how often they got showers and could do laundry, how often they did calisthenics and what other kinds of exercise and recreation were available, and what kinds of self-improvement courses were taught. But just as often, he kept pressing men on what kind of labor they did for the Germans, what kinds of projects Colonel Hogan had volunteered them for. Klink was all too happy to suggest answers, asking if the man in question had helped with a particular road or factory project or working on any local farms. Several times, Barton had asked, "and no one tried to escape?" But in Klink's presence no one could answer freely. Barton had picked up on their wariness, but ascribed it to the wrong cause.

"I didn't like it one bit," Corporal Jim Meadows from Barrack 8 told Newkirk. "Here he was conducting the inspection without having the colonel there, and after bawling him out like he did on Klink's word alone. So no one was happy to see him, but he seemed to think that was just because of bad morale overall because of no escapes, and blamed Colonel Hogan for it. The way he asked his questions, it sounded to me like he wanted us to rat on the colonel in some way, like any poor camp conditions are his fault! And when we didn't, you could tell he thought we were afraid of Hogan, instead of unhappy with him and his questions. But we couldn't tell him anything with Klink sticking like glue right there next to him. You'd think he might have noticed," Meadows finished in disgust.

Newkirk brought the reports back to Kinchloe shortly before the Barrack 2 dinner shift. "I'd like to tell 'im a thing or two meself," he said, shaking his head.

Kinch nodded sympathetically, then glanced at his watch. "It's about time for dinner. I'll get the colonel. Don't pester him," he warned, looking around the room. Everyone nodded glumly.

Kinch knocked on the colonel's door to signal the time for dinner; Hogan came out zipping his jacket. He glanced around, noting the smaller than usual number of men in the barracks, then asked, "The survey teams still shadowing Barton?"

"Yes, sir. I just asked Meadows and Soderstrom to take over, since they're on the earlier dinner shift, so LeBeau and Carter'd have a chance to eat. Meadows will pass the word, so Saunders, Garlotti, Chapman, Pike, and Foster should be along with them."

"Good. Let's go." Hogan headed out the door; the others all followed. Kinch briefed the colonel quickly on the reports from the other barracks. Hogan nodded, but made no comment. As they got close to the mess hall, they ran into the off-duty surveillance teams. Catching Kinch's eye, Newkirk quietly passed on to them Kinch's suggestion not to bother the colonel. All the men made an effort to be cheerful, not pushing Hogan directly to talk but keeping chatter going so he wouldn't have to as they made their way into the mess hall and lined up for their rations of thin barley soup, boiled potatoes, and bread.

They were in the middle of eating when Kinch stopped abruptly, his spoon halfway to his mouth, as he gazed toward the entryway. "Barton's here!" he whispered urgently to the colonel.

"Ten-hut!" bellowed out someone near the door; conversation all over the hall came to an immediate halt as everyone scrambled to their feet to stand at attention.

"At ease," Barton called out. "Continue with your meal, gentlemen." Everyone sat back down; conversation resumed, but at a low buzz as everyone watched covertly while Barton came to the front of line and took rations of soup and bread.

"Did you see, _mon Colonel_?" LeBeau queried in surprise. "He's going to _eat_ here!"

Hogan nodded. "So I saw," he replied calmly, raising his spoon to swallow another spoonful of soup. He hardly felt hungry, but he knew he needed to project unruffled confidence in front of his men right now.

Klink, meanwhile, was almost dancing in his concern at the idea of the general eating the common rations of the camp. "But General, I planned for you to dine in my quarters this evening, you really must accept my hospitality. . . ."

Barton ignored the Kommandant's pleading and took his soup bowl over to a table filled with men from Barrack 10, who shifted uncomfortably over to make room for him. Klink fluttered around, but Barton paid no attention to the hovering German officer, instead asking the men at the table where they were from. A couple of them answered hesitantly, and as vaguely as possible, highly aware of the hovering Kommandant and not wanting to add any details to their dossiers in Klink's office.

"Klink's fit to be tied," Carter said, trying to hide a grin as he looked down at his soup.

"_Oui_, he did not plan on the general seeing exactly what garbage he feeds us," LeBeau responded with a sniff.

"If 'e'll eat this rubbish, 'e's braver than I thought. So far 'e's been naught but a bloody coward," Newkirk growled.

"Newkirk!" Hogan snapped out sharply in censure. Unfortunately, he spoke during a momentary lull and his reprimand was audible to several nearby tables.

The Englishman flushed and responded quietly, "Sorry, sir." He glanced up to see Barton watching them and flushed even redder. Clearly, the general had overheard at least that last part of the exchange, and maybe more, so the Englishman doubly regretted his remark. Colonel Hogan was fairly informal for an officer, but he did have certain requirements and Newkirk knew he had just stepped over a line by voicing disrespect for a superior officer. Particularly given the general's presence within earshot, Newkirk realized he might have just embarrassed the commanding officer he had wanted to support. He felt Kinch looking at him disapprovingly, but the sergeant nonetheless came to his aid (or maybe it was the colonel's), moving the conversation on by asking if anyone knew the schedule for the camp volleyball tournament that was running the next week.

Grateful for the new topic, Carter, Saunders, and Garlotti entered into a discussion over which barrack team would likely win; as the others joined in, the sheepish consensus was that Barrack 2 would _not_ be among the finalists, though debate was contentious over whether the team from Barrack 4 (LeBeau's bet), the one from Barrack 9 (Carter and Garlotti's favorite), or Barrack 12's team would win (heavily supported by Saunders, Pike, and Foster). Only Newkirk kept quiet, staring down at his soup, stirring it desultorily rather than eating it.

By contrast, dinner conversation seemed to be going badly over at the Barrack 10 table. Apparently tired of getting one word responses from the wary men at his table, Barton made short work of the meal – as usual, it didn't encourage lingering over anyway – and rose to head out, followed by the relieved Kommandant.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as the two left the hall, and the hum of conversation rose immediately. Colonel Hogan was the subject of a lot of covert looks; though highly aware of the scrutiny, he ignored it. Finishing his own meal, Hogan stood, followed in short order by the rest of the men in his barrack. It would soon be time for roll call, so everyone else was finishing up as well, gradually spilling out into the compound for a little time of leisure first.

ooOoo

Everyone took their accustomed places for roll call. They had to stand there longer than usual, well past the point that the count had been accomplished. Eventually Klink and Barton came out of the Kommandant's quarters where, presumably, Barton had gotten a second and better dinner.

"I suppose he got all the privileges of his rank," LeBeau spat out to Carter in a low aside, careful to keep his voice quiet enough that Hogan wouldn't hear, standing on the other side of Newkirk. He trailed off into a muttered rant in French till shushed by Kinch with "Give it a rest, LeBeau!"

Though they did not normally come to formal attention for Klink at roll call, with General Barton present the men all snapped to it, unwilling to give the general any further ammunition to use against their colonel. Having received confirmation of the official count, Klink turned to Barton and asked, "Is there anything you would like to say to the prisoners assembled here?"

Barton frowned at him, then turned to the ranks of prisoners. "At ease," he ordered first, then waited a moment for the men to stand easy before continuing. "Allied soldiers," he called out strongly, "I know you have been told that for you the war is over. But rest assured, at Allied headquarters we are working as hard as we can to end the war and bring you home as soon as possible." Klink's face fell: a rallying speech was not what he'd had in mind.

Barton continued, "But also remember that the war is _not_ over for you: you still have a part to play in keeping faith with your comrades, resisting Nazi propaganda, and refusing to collaborate or help the Nazi war machine in any way. I've seen for myself that you lead lives of privation. Privileges and luxuries as payment for extra work are naturally tempting. But remember that you must never perform any labor that will provide any kind of aid to the enemy, that will prolong the war and might cost your countrymen their lives. Any man who sells out should be condemned by all of you, and you should all keep in mind that such treason will be severely dealt with by the Allied High Command when the war is over – no matter what the man's rank." Barton stared directly and malevolently at Hogan while making this pronouncement. Hogan held and returned the gaze squarely, as Barton finished, "You may have been captured, but you can survive the war with honor, and that is expected of you. Also remember that it is your duty as prisoners to escape, no matter what."

Klink smiled gleefully behind Barton's back as the general made his speech, watching Hogan the entire time, but his smug look disappeared at the general's final comment. Immediately he broke in, saying, "Thank you, General, but I am afraid I must escort you back to your quarters now. It will only be for a short while, however, until your departure in the morning." Following an extra-long "Dissss-missssed" to the prisoners, he bowed the American officer toward the cooler with great courtesy, though he couldn't resist looking over his shoulder in triumph at Hogan as soon as Barton turned to precede him.

For his part, Hogan simply stared bleakly in silence after the two officers, as his men gathered round him muttering darkly. LeBeau was nearly apoplectic with fury. "How dare he say such a thing!"

"Keep it down," Hogan ordered, frowning. "It doesn't really matter what Barton thinks right now. He's just going on what he's seen here in camp. From his perspective, it looks pretty bad: no escapes and me volunteering you all for road, factory, and farm work. But London will straighten him out when he gets back there in a couple of days. He doesn't need to know about us right now – it could even be dangerous, since he's too transparent about saying what he thinks." His gaze shifted around sternly to all of them. "Don't let it get to you; you're giving Klink just what he wants. Got it?" After seeing several sullen looks, he hooked his thumbs in his jacket pockets and repeated himself more forcibly, "I _said_, got it?" He waited until he heard a ragged chorus of subdued "Yes sirs," then with an exasperated sigh he headed inside the barrack.

Kinch didn't follow him, and after catching sight of his face LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter remained outside as well. Several of the nearby barracks chiefs came up to join them, their faces etched with worry and anger, and the complaints about the general made a considerable racket. No one's mood was improved by watching Klink march back from the cooler to his quarters, satisfaction emanating from him with every swaggering step.

Meadows finally proclaimed, "He practically called Colonel Hogan a traitor in front of the whole camp. We can't let him leave here thinking that about the colonel! Something's gotta be done." He looked around to unanimous nods of agreement.

"Yep. And here's how we're going to do it," Kinch announced. He'd been thinking this over since the general had left the barracks earlier in the afternoon; the general's speech had simply crystallized his determination. All the men looked at him expectantly. "First, we need someone to pretend to be a malcontent and ask Klink for permission to speak to Barton tomorrow, in the compound before he leaves."

Everyone turned at once to look at Newkirk, whose eyes widened at the sudden attention.

"Why me?" the Englishman asked, genuinely perplexed.

"It's gotta be someone from Barrack 2; Klink'll figure you didn't have a chance to complain like the guys from the other barracks did because Colonel Hogan was in the barrack with you," Meadows nodded in agreement.

"Fine – why _me_ then?"

LeBeau grinned. "Who else can play the malcontent so well, _mon ami_?"

"Well, 'ow about Carter? At least 'e's in the right army! Barton only pays attention to Yanks anyway!"

LeBeau laughed openly at the idea. "Carter, a malcontent! Next you will suggest that Oscar Schnitzer bring puppies as guard dogs?"

Carter looked apprehensive. "Me, talk to a general? Gosh, I wouldn't know what to say!"

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Like I ruddy well do!"

Kinch shook his head. "We need someone who's good with words, who's not afraid of the brass, who Klink will believe might complain about the colonel, and preferably who's not in the same army, to make it harder for Barton to take reprisals if he gets mad," he replied, ticking the points off on his fingers.

"Oh well that's just bloody charmin'," Newkirk muttered, not thrilled with the prospect.

Kinch ignored him. "British would be best, since our contacts in London can back us up on this if we need them. Besides, given that Barton saw you get in trouble with the colonel at dinner, it'll mean more to him if you're the one supporting him. All you have to do is tell Barton that he's got the wrong idea about the colonel." He paused and looked Newkirk in the eye. "You said you wanted to tell him a thing or two, right? So how 'bout it, Newkirk?"

Feeling everyone's eyes on him, Newkirk sighed and rested his thumbs in his trouser pockets. "Course I will, for the guv'nor. But if I'm supposed to be speaking for all of us, you blokes can give me some ideas on what and how much I should say."


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's note: And now the part you've all been waiting for (judging from your comments!) . . . though there will be one more chapter as an epilogue beyond this, tying up significant loose ends._

"Corporal Bauer at the motor pool said the staff car's ordered for 0930," Carter reported to Kinch and the others the next morning, after checking to make sure the colonel's door was closed.

"How much did it cost you?" LeBeau asked.

"Two of the chocolate bars with almonds," Carter answered, shrugging.

"Told you he'd drive a hard bargain, and Carter's got no head for it. Should've let me try," Newkirk said, rolling his eyes and taking a drag on his cigarette.

"We don't need you calling any extra attention to yourself this morning," Kinch frowned. "Okay, that means the general will probably be brought out at about the same time. Everybody got your roles straight? Any final questions?"

The men all nodded, both those from Barrack 2 and the barracks chiefs who had gathered. All of them had some role to play in the plan, as distractions or lookouts. It might not be a serious mission for headquarters, but they all felt they had a vital stake in this small operation, and it was one that meant a lot to them. Everyone headed out into the yard except for Kinch and Foster, who were tasked with keeping the colonel out of the compound until after Newkirk had had his chance to talk with the general. That seemed likely to be easy: since roll call the night before, Hogan had come out of his quarters only for the nightly check-in with London and again for roll call that morning, vanishing back inside as soon as breakfast was finished. But he had left orders to be called outside when Barton's departure was imminent. LeBeau was to report in to Kinch when Newkirk's audience with Barton started successfully, then signal again as soon as Newkirk's discussion with the general was over. Kinch felt fortunate the colonel's window didn't face that part of the compound, so they didn't have to worry about him being able to see what was going on from his office.

Precisely at 0930, the staff car rolled out of the motor pool and over to the Kommandantur. Klink came out of his office, standing on the porch and gesturing for Schultz to go fetch General Barton from the cooler. Newkirk approached Klink, offering a cautious salute.

"Beggin' your pardon, Kommandant, but I was wondering if I might 'ave a word with General Barton before he leaves." He frowned and lowered his voice confidentially. "There's some things I'd like to tell 'im as I didn't 'ave a chance to yesterday afternoon in our barrack inspection. _You_ know, not with the colonel standing right there where 'e could 'ear anything any of us 'ad to say." He looked meaningfully at the Kommandant, then around the yard, inviting him to notice Hogan's absence.

Klink looked blank for a moment, then caught on. "I see. Well, perhaps just a couple of minutes would be all right," he said, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of one of Hogan's closest men wanting to complain about him to Barton.

Barton approached, flanked by Schultz and one other guard. Klink and Newkirk both saluted him, Klink greeting him, "Good morning, General Barton. I hope – "

Whatever it was that Klink hoped was suddenly cut off by a commotion over by the water tower, caused by several shouting prisoners and a guard. "Excuse me, Herr General," Klink grumbled, heading off to see the cause of the disturbance, accompanied by Schultz.

Barton looked curiously at Newkirk, as the two of them were left relatively unguarded, Newkirk still standing at attention. "At ease," the general said. "Are you here to speak to me?"

"Yes sir, with your permission, sir. I've been chosen by me mates in camp to 'ave a word with you concernin' Colonel 'Ogan."

Barton's brow furrowed as he looked at the younger man. "I remember you now. You were in Hogan's barrack when I inspected it yesterday – and were disciplined by him at dinner last night. So, what's your name and what is it you have to say, Corporal?"

Newkirk took a deep breath to try to steady his nerves and his voice. "Me name's Peter Newkirk, of the R.A.F. And we all wanted you to know you've got the wrong idea about the colonel, sir."

Barton's face darkened. "Oh I do, do I?"

Oddly, Barton's irritation calmed Newkirk down. He had certainly been used to having officers on base in England unhappy with him for one reason or another, if not ones of such high rank. And Barton's displeasure reminded him of the seriousness of his mission.

"You see, sir, it's this way. I've never had much use for officers – or they for me either, come to that – but the colonel is different. 'E really looks after us, and 'e always 'as ever since 'e was brought here. Things were a lot worse for all of us before 'e came. 'E's not supposed to be 'ere at all, really: this is an NCO camp, mostly corporals like me with some sergeants. The colonel's the only officer we 'ave in the camp, in fact. The Kraut brass sent 'im 'ere to keep 'im away from any other officers, to punish im for 'avin' resisted so much during 'is interrogation after 'e was shot down. They didn't dare leave much in the way of permanent marks on 'im, but they still worked 'im over pretty hard, knowin' that with 'is rank 'e 'ad to 'ave a pretty good idea of strategic plans and tryin' to find out what 'e knew. The Gestapo 'ad 'im for near two months in the summer of '42, but 'e never breathed a word about nothing 'e knew, the whole time, no matter what they did to 'im." Newkirk paused and looked at the general assessingly, then added, "Not even the number of the bombing group 'e commanded."

Barton's eyes narrowed, and Newkirk hoped that particular dig at the general had hit home.

"And just how do you know all that?" Barton asked suspiciously. "I suppose that's what he told you!"

"No, sir, 'e never said much about it. 'E wouldn't. Most men don't like rememberin', much less discussin' that sort o' thing, and the guv'nor's a private sort o' man. We know because when 'e was first brought 'ere, we swiped 'is official file from the Kommandant's office and 'ad a couple of our boys as speaks German fluently read it," Newkirk answered promptly. He kept his own face serious, but he was amused by the sudden uplift of Barton's eyebrows. Surprised you with that one, he thought, then continued on with his rehearsed speech.

"The colonel takes the view that anything 'e can get out of the Krauts for us is that much less for them, and 'e's right good at gettin' Klink to give us extra rations of food, or extra showers or 'ot water for 'em, or wood for our stove in the winter." Barton's narrowed eyes suggested this tactic wasn't going down well, and, remembering the general's preaching against "tempting luxuries" at roll call the night before, Newkirk hastened to clarify. "The colonel's _never_ 'ad us do any work that'd ultimately 'elp the Nazi war effort. There's been times we've worked for 'em, but every time the Krauts weren't so 'appy with the results of it, if you follow my meanin', sir. And yes, the colonel's 'ad us work on farms sometimes, partly for us to get extra food, but also – " Newkirk glanced around and lowered his voice, " – it's always to get out of camp and get the lay of the land around 'ere. Klink's told you that there 'aven't been any escapes from 'ere, but I'll bet 'e didn't tell you about the unsuccessful attempts, or the amount of time the colonel's spent in the cooler for 'em." Barton's sharp glance of surprise confirmed that.

"And the colonel don't get any 'privileges of 'is rank' when Klink tosses 'im in one of those cells," Newkirk added, his eyes sparking a bit. "It's just 'im and a wood bunk and two buckets, like the rest of us." This time Barton looked away, cheeks slightly reddening. Got you with that one, Newkirk thought triumphantly.

Taking a tight grip on his temper, Newkirk added, his voice lower yet. "And ol' Klink don't know everything going on in this camp, sir. The colonel's not out of this war, not by a long shot. And so neither are any of the men in this camp, because we all follow the colonel's lead, sir."

He saw Klink making his "Iron Fist" gesture at the prisoners by the water tower and then turning on his heel to stride back to them. That meant the diversion was over and he had to finish up quickly. But he had made his major points. After a debate last night, everyone had agreed not to second guess the colonel's implicit directive not to tell Barton about their operation in case he let something slip about it. Kinch had argued successfully that it was safer to stick with the public details of camp life and let London decide how much to tell Barton. But they could still let him know that Hogan was no collaborator, and Newkirk thought he had accomplished that.

"So that's the set up, General. Maybe I shouldn't speak up like this, but well, we just wanted you to know how we all feel about Colonel 'Ogan. And you can't put me in jail for sayin' it because, well, practically speakin' I'm in jail already."

Barton was staring across the compound at Barrack 2 as he spoke, while Klink scurried up to join them. "That's all, Newkirk," he said impatiently, and Newkirk nodded, giving a quick salute to both officers before he moved off. He could hear Klink launch into a long speech about hoping Barton would remember his good treatment at Stalag 13, what he had seen here, what an honor it had been to host him. . . .

Well, Newkirk sighed to himself as he crossed over to the water tower, he'd done what he could. The question was, had Barton bought it?

ooOoo

Hogan sat on his upper bunk, leaning back against the wall, a battered copy of _Moby Dick_ from the camp library on his knee. He glared at it, realizing that he had no idea what had happened on the last two pages he had read. He tossed it aside, slouching down further, and stared at the ceiling. He should be outside, watching the compound as Barton prepared to leave. Instead, he was in here. Since he was generally honest with himself, he had to admit he was hiding.

The truth was, he just didn't want to chance another run-in with Barton. Mostly he just wanted to avoid the look of contempt Barton used to drill him through every time he looked at him, and the scorching chewing out likely to accompany it. All the men watching him get another public dressing down wouldn't help overall morale either, if the general decided to bawl him out one more time before leaving. He wanted even less to see Klink crowing over him again. Roll call this morning had been hard to take, with Klink's snide comments and triumphant looks. He had plenty more of that coming, he knew. Klink wasn't about to let him forget what Barton had said, and no doubt planned to remind him of it at every opportunity, in public and private. And all those looks of worry and pity that he kept getting from his men weren't any better. His office was the only place he could avoid Barton, Klink, and his men. But not for long. He had left orders for Kinch to call him when the general was about to depart, so he could truthfully tell London that he had seen him out the gates with his own eyes, but he figured he was avoiding trouble until then by lying low in here.

The sooner Barton left, the better. The whole episode had been a bitter pill to swallow, and Hogan just wanted to put it behind him as quickly as possible and start doing damage control. A new mission to get all the men looking forward and focused on their job in the war effort was just what they needed – but that would have to wait a couple of days. London didn't want them to do anything until Barton's exchange had occurred, to prevent anything from derailing the swap. Hogan thought that was overly cautious, though of course he'd obey the orders he had gotten. He was going to have to find something for his men to do, though.

He heard a knock on his door, and Kinch calling, "General Barton's about to leave, Colonel."

He sighed to himself, hopped down from the bunk, and grabbed his jacket, calling out "Coming" as he did so. Shrugging it on and pulling on his cap, he pushed open the door and emerged into the noticeably empty main room. Except for Kinch, LeBeau, and Foster, apparently everyone was outside.

Kinch was standing by his door, that look of concern on his face that Hogan was really getting tired of. He valued his steady second in command beyond measure, and appreciated that Kinch was good enough at reading him to know when to push him to open up and when not to. But the sergeant's unvoiced concern, evident all over his face, was just another reminder of how badly Hogan's ability to command might have been damaged during the last few days.

LeBeau, by contrast, seemed to be vibrating in excitement. Well, that figured: they were all pretty happy about getting rid of Barton. LeBeau had been talking aloud to himself in French quite a lot last night and this morning, obviously letting off steam. Kinch had rolled his eyes at whatever it was LeBeau was saying; Hogan figured it was a good thing his own French was limited enough that he couldn't really follow the fiery little Frenchman's meaning, since he suspected he would have to come down on LeBeau for disrespect the way he had Newkirk.

The incident last night at dinner still bothered him, particularly because he knew that Newkirk had been voicing support for him, plus the Englishman had had a pretty hangdog look to him for the rest of the meal after the reprimand. But on the other hand, he couldn't let that kind of insubordination stand, and especially not then and there, in front of his command staff, with Barton himself sitting just 20 feet away. And what if Barton had heard it? Newkirk was an exceptionally bright man, but he hadn't been thinking straight right then and his ill-considered disregard of military courtesy couldn't have been much worse timed. Hogan knew he probably should have come down harder on him than he had, in fact, except that he _had_ known how Newkirk meant it. He pushed the problem aside for the moment as he zipped up his jacket. He'd mend fences with Newkirk somehow later today, once Barton was out of the way.

"Klink is giving _le général_ a brief farewell speech. That ought to take about fifteen or twenty minutes," LeBeau informed him and Kinch with a smirk, drawing a slight grin from Hogan and a chuckle from Kinch as they nodded agreement with the Frenchman.

Foster too fell in step with them as they stepped out into the compound, and Hogan strolled over to his usual watch post at the corner of the barrack, casually leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed in front of him as he watched Klink in full spate, droning on and on about Stalag 13 and his command of the camp. Barton looked like he wasn't paying much attention, his eyes alternating between looking at the ground and glancing around the compound. Hogan couldn't blame him for that, given the speaker and the subject matter. He'd heard variations of it often enough in the past two years he could have recited it himself in his sleep. Or, more likely, to _put_ himself to sleep.

Carter ambled over to join Hogan's group too. Greenberg, Saunders, Chapman, and Pike were lounging against Barrack 2 on the other side of the door. In fact, quite a lot of the prisoner population seemed to have turned out to watch the general's departure, with a large number of men clustered into small groups scattered widely across the compound. Hogan spotted Newkirk standing over by the water tower with a bunch of other men – oddly, mostly barracks chiefs – and he puzzled mildly over why the Englishman was staying with them rather than joining with his usual barrack mates. Still smarting from the reprimand at dinner last night? It wasn't like Newkirk to hold on to that sort of grudge, though. The problem more often was getting him to remember reprimands, not forget them.

Klink finally wound up his speech and opened the car door for the general. Barton started to duck inside, then pulled back and turned around. He took three steps away from the car and called in a strong sharp voice, "Hogan! Colonel Hogan!"

Oh God, now what? Can't he just leave? Hogan wondered bleakly as he took several steps forward, prepared for the worst.

To Hogan's infinite astonishment, Barton lifted his right hand in a formal salute. Hogan straightened and returned it. For a short moment they held the salute and each other's eyes, and Hogan saw nothing but a decisive and genuine respect in the general's face.

The gesture had an immediate effect on everyone who witnessed it, as jaws dropped all over the compound: a general _initiating_ a salute to a colonel? They'd never seen such a thing, since it went against all military protocol for a senior officer to salute an inferior one! All the prisoners broke into smiles; some even clapped each other on the back. A ghost of a smile hovered momentarily on Barton's face, then he turned back and ducked into the waiting car. Klink, on autopilot, shut the door behind him, and the driver started off, leaving the befuddled Kommandant peering across the compound at Hogan as he brought the swagger stick in his left hand up to tap his chin in bewilderment over what he had just seen.

Hogan folded his arms across his chest, a genuine smile on his face as he watched the staff car going through the camp gates and noticed Klink's obvious bafflement. Whoever would've thought General Barton would come through with a gesture like that? And just how did that little miracle happen? he wondered.

Newkirk and his comrades trotted up as Kinch, LeBeau, Carter and Foster drifted forward, joined by Greenberg, Saunders, Chapman, and Pike, Cheshire Cat grins on all their faces. Hogan surveyed the rather large group he was suddenly at the center of and hooked his thumbs in his jacket pockets.

"Okay, I don't know how you did it – and maybe I don't want to know," he said, to appreciative chuckles and sly looks, "but I'm betting you were all in on this in one way or another. It wasn't really necessary, but," he paused and his gaze swept around to look at them all, "however you did it you obviously did a good job, and I do appreciate it. A lot. Thanks, fellas."

Praise and thanks like this from their commanding officer both pleased and embarrassed everyone, and no one knew quite what to do, until Saunders started to sing, "For he's a jolly good fellow" and they all joined in enthusiastically. The last line got mishmashed between the competing British "and so say all of us" and American "which nobody can deny" versions, but that just led to greater laughter, and Colonel Hogan, relaxed and smiling, laughed along with all of his men.

_Author's note: I am indebted to the Hogan's Heroes Wiki page on "The General Swap" for the explanation on why Barton's salute is so unusual, as well as several websites on military protocols for salutes._


	12. Chapter 12:  Epilogue

_Epilogue:_

The next afternoon, General Aloysius Barton stood staring down the heavily fortified lane that formed the passage from Nazi Germany to neutral Switzerland. He could see several American Army officers on the other side, and a man in German uniform. His escort, _Hauptmann_ Kellner, gestured to the other side. "Both of you are to walk across at the same time." He thinned his lips. "We do not want any trouble."

"You won't get any from me," Barton promised. He just wanted to get back to England, back to his command. Even though he had been treated very well, due to his rank, his last few days as a prisoner of the Nazis had made him burn that much hotter to defeat the Third Reich and finish this war. Most other officers, and certainly the enlisted men, did not get the exceptionally good treatment he had gotten. His mind wandered briefly, as it so often had today and the day before, to Colonel Robert Hogan, as he watched the other side closely. It occurred to him that Hogan had no chance for an exchange such as this.

The German on the other side of the border strode forward, and Barton did so as well. As they approached each other, Barton looked his counterpart over. A field marshal! How on earth had the Allies gotten their hands on a field marshal to trade for him?

Both men paused as they met in the center. As a lower-ranking brigadier general, Barton offered a salute, which the field marshal returned. Dropping their arms to their sides, the two men gazed briefly at each other. Barton saw a tall man, perhaps five or so years younger than himself, with a proud, aristocratic, and military bearing. The Nazi stared down at him.

"_Gerade ein anderer Pilot_," the field marshal said contemptuously, after looking him up and down.*

Barton bristled: though he didn't understand what the field marshal had said, he could tell it wasn't complimentary. "I'll see _you_ after the war," he promised, glaring back.

The field marshal shrugged his shoulders, then walked on. Unsure if the German had understood him or not, but not really caring, Barton strode forward himself. As he got closer, he could see that the men in USAAC uniforms were ones he knew, Colonel Nichols and Captain Ross, both watching nervously. He was momentarily stopped by the heavily armed Swiss sentries, one of whom asked, in heavily accented English, "Your name?"

"General Aloysius Barton," he confirmed, hearing Nichols and Ross both verify his identity to the Swiss officials standing by, then he was allowed to pass the border guards.

As he came up to his fellow American officers, they both saluted then asked anxiously, almost in unison, "General Barton! Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," he assured them. "What's the plan now?"

"This way, sir," they steered him toward a waiting car. Barton looked over his shoulder, back across the border, seeing the field marshal being escorted away by _Hauptmann_ Kellner. He settled himself inside the car and looked at them. "Now what?"

"We drive to the airport and take a plane to London. The Swiss authorities weren't thrilled about hosting the exchange, in case it was seen as violating their neutrality. So we're leaving straight away. We should be back in England by this evening," Nichols promised him.

"How the devil did you arrange a swap? And Ross, I'm very glad to see you, but shouldn't you be in a POW camp in Germany? How the hell did you get away?"

The two officers looked at each other. "General, as soon as we're back in London, I promise to tell you the whole tale," Ross answered. "It's just not secure enough here. But it's a pretty wild story; I think you'll find it amazing."

_*This is my best guess at the German for Von Heinke's "Just another pilot" line in the original episode. Hoping for an accurate and idiomatic version, I've listened to this particular line on the German-language version of the series, __Ein Käfig voller Helden__, on YouTube. Sadly, my short instruction in German during high school decades ago is not up to deciphering anything in that line beyond "Pilot," no matter how many times I listen to it. My apologies to any German speakers among the readers of this story if I've mangled the phrase, and I will happily make a correction if anyone can suggest a better translation for it._

ooOoo

Barton entered his own quarters, turned on the light, and looked around with a sigh. It had been almost a week since he had been here, and he had at several points wondered if he would ever get back. The irony of how he came to be standing here was not lost on him at this point. Right now it was very late in the evening, and he'd had only the beginnings of the debriefing on his experiences being shot down and held captive. He crossed over to the small cabinet he kept a bottle of bourbon in and poured himself a shot. He needed to sleep. But he needed to think first, and this was the first chance he had gotten to think through all that had happened. He took a sip of the bourbon, feeling the heat burrow down to his belly.

He had made some colossal mistakes. First, his decision to fly and see conditions for himself looked imprudent, in hindsight, given all the trouble it had caused. He had learned a great deal, but certainly not what he had intended to. No cost/benefit analysis could say that the knowledge gained had outweighed the price paid.

And Colonel Robert E. Hogan had gotten the some of the worst of it. He shook his head in regret. Ross had been right: the story was amazing, and Hogan a remarkable man. He had to admire Hogan's daring and unorthodox thinking. Looking back, he could see how he had made the colonel's job much more complicated by his own obtuseness when they first met. He could not excuse himself for his initial distrust of a fellow officer. Hogan's line that had so infuriated him kept ringing through his head: "Nice try, pal, but the colonel here knows you're not Barton. He's going to take you out of this maximum security cell and put you in with the rest of us." It was obvious to him now that Hogan had been trying to get him out of the cooler so he could use his operation to get him back to England. Assessing himself, Barton could see that he'd been so blinded by anger over being shot down, and so shaken up over how fast and easily he had been captured, that he had seen the gambit only as an attack on his rank, not as a chance to join the men of his side. As a prisoner for two years who had never escaped, and reputedly had not even tried, Hogan had represented everything that Barton had not wanted to be. Unfortunately, that was all he kept seeing the whole time he had been at the camp. But Hogan had remained completely professional, even when unjustly and severely bawled out simply on the word of an enemy officer, without being allowed to say a word in self-defense. Not that he could have said anything with the camp Kommandant standing there at his elbow.

Barton shook his head again, furious with himself. What had he been thinking? It was inexcusable for a senior officer such as himself to attack a subordinate in such a way, without giving him a chance to explain himself – particularly in the presence of the enemy. He understood now that as long Klink was around, Hogan had to maintain the façade of cooperation. Barton had never had a moment alone with Hogan to give him such a chance to explain. Klink would never have allowed such privacy, of course: it was much more to his advantage to use Barton as a weapon against Hogan. And unforgivably, he had played right into Klink's hands.

He sighed again at the thought of how he had let himself be used against a fellow officer who had been trying to help him. In one sense Hogan was simply doing his duty, yes, but he was also a true hero in this war, having spent two years in captivity, facing the enemy daily at close quarters. Barton remembered the terror of having his own plane shot down from under him, diving out into the flack-filled sky, the desperation he had felt when captured so quickly and easily after landing. But he had been treated well throughout his imprisonment: guarded closely, but kept comfortably. He had never faced any real interrogation at all, whereas he was sure from what the politely irrepressible Corporal Newkirk had said that Hogan must have been through hell. He didn't like to think of what the man's experience must have been after being shot down in the summer of '42, when discovering Allied bombing strategies would have been critical to the Nazis. And Hogan had been in a position to know. He was high enough in the command chain to have had much of the information the Nazis would have wanted. Seven weeks with the Gestapo . . . and he had once never broken, not even giving the number of the bomber squadron he had commanded, which Barton himself had handed over to Klink without even thinking about it. He winced again at the thought. Newkirk had been right – insubordinate, but right – to tick him off for so carelessly revealing information on another soldier, and another officer, no less.

Barton downed the rest of his drink and poured himself another. And even now Hogan was the only officer in that camp, living in that crowded hut, cheek by jowl with the men of his command. The small unheated office he had seen on his tour of the camp rose in his mind's eye, the one small concession to Hogan's rank as a colonel. No real privileges. Barton had seen only a single blanket on the bunks in it. It had to be very uncomfortable in the winter, unless the colonel sacrificed the modicum of privacy that he had in his quarters for the warmth of the stove in the main room. But a good commanding officer knew that his men needed time apart from him, to relax and let loose free while from his eye, as much as he needed distance from them. Barton was sure that Hogan spent a lot of chilly hours in that spartan office.

The rest of the camp had been in surprisingly good order, now that he thought about it: the portions managed by the prisoners clean and well maintained despite the shabby materials and construction, with surprisingly few men in the infirmary given the camp's size. That all spoke well for Hogan's abilities to manage, especially given the short supplies he had. And Barton knew that conditions in that camp were likely to get worse before the war ended, that Hogan's negotiations with the Kommandant would get harder and at the same time more crucial to protect his men's well-being. The small bare office rose in his mind again: the rough bench converted to use as a desk with only a three-legged stool as a chair sitting in front of it; on top of it only an old lamp, a cracked mug with some chewed-up pencils, and the schedule of camp duties. From that primitive desk Hogan administered his entire command – above ground and below.

Barton paced restlessly around his living room – his warm, spacious living room.

So Hogan lived very much as a prisoner, but at the same time having to carry out rescue, espionage, and sabotage duties on the sly, in daily danger of being found out and shot. Yet from what Barton had been told, the man succeeded in an astounding percentage of difficult (if not impossible) missions, time and again, when the price of failure could be execution. Impossible missions such as kidnapping a Nazi field marshal to exchange for a pig-headed American general. He gulped some more of his bourbon. It tasted bitter tonight, not smooth. Thinking about it, the brilliance and sheer effrontery of the plan astonished him – not to mention its success, given all they were up against. It amazed him that they had pulled it off. But here he was, standing in his own quarters on base in England rather than the cell he was sleeping in just 48 hours ago – right after he had practically called Hogan a traitor in front of all his men . . . and the enemy.

Thank God for Corporal Newkirk's final intervention. He had seen the close attention that the men scattered around the compound had been paying to them while they were speaking – those that weren't involved with the diversion that had taken Klink away. Afterwards, he had watched carefully while Klink had been spouting on and on – and just how on earth did Hogan stand listening to that drivel all the time? – and he had seen that Newkirk had been questioned eagerly by all his companions when he returned to them, obviously about what success he'd had. There was no doubt the Englishman had been a true spokesman for his comrades.

Even if he'd had any doubts about Newkirk's veracity, the joyful reactions of the men across the compound after his salute to their commanding officer would have removed them. He had also noticed that the enthusiasm was shared among the men of all nationalities. Clearly, Hogan had earned the widespread admiration and loyalty of all the men under his command, which also explained their sullen resistance to his own attempted questioning of them during the inspection. He had been so intent on gathering evidence for the court martial he'd intended to see Hogan got that he had mistaken the cause of their surliness. And of course they couldn't correct him, not with the Kommandant of the camp standing right there beside him. Why that hadn't occurred to him at the time he couldn't understand now. Newkirk had commendably not broken security about their operation, but he had carefully set straight the public record – which was impressive enough on its own merits. At least, Barton thought, he had made one right decision at the end. Perhaps by saluting the colonel in front of Klink he had perhaps made up for some small part of the humiliation he had dealt out to Hogan in front of the enemy.

Finally, there was the issue of the black sergeant, Kinchloe. Barton remained puzzled over how the man had wound up in Stalag 13. He thought he remembered the Major Friedman that Kinchloe had mentioned as a part of the command structure from quite a while back, but he was unsure about why the man would have taken Kinchloe up on a bombing mission over Germany when there were plenty of white navigators, especially when the Negro sergeant couldn't have had the proper training. It was a curious matter, and if he could find the time he would try to investigate it – if he could find any survivors from Friedman's command to ask. The unfortunate reality was that casualties had been so heavy in the past two years that there might not be any. And of course the answer might only be known by those who had been on that shot-down plane.

Still, there was another man to talk with about this issue whom he had not yet met, a Lieutenant Stevens, who had actually piloted the plane that they had stolen from the Germans to fly the kidnapped field marshal to England. Ross had said that Stevens had spent over a week living in Hogan's barrack after being shot down, before being smuggled out by Hogan's crew. So surely Stevens would have some insights. Barton had noticed that Kinchloe had been close to Hogan repeatedly, sitting next to him at dinner and coming out of the barracks to stand with him in the compound just before Barton had left. He wasn't certain, but looking back he thought Kinchloe might have been the man that he had seen Hogan talking with when Klink brought him out of the cooler compound for his inspection tour. Hogan's tolerance and protection of a man that the Nazis would regard as inferior, and even perhaps as subhuman, spoke well for the colonel's character. A man who put principle into practice. Yes, overall Hogan was a remarkable man.

He had requested that his thanks personally be sent to Hogan and his team, and an apology for having inadvertently made their job difficult. He wished he could apologize more clearly to the colonel for what he had said to him in that cell when they met, for calling him a traitor on the word of an enemy officer and threatening him with a court martial. But it wouldn't do Hogan much good to broadcast that episode over the radio to Allied High Command here in London. The fact remained, however, that he owed Robert Hogan a greater debt than he had ever owed anyone in his life. The carefully worded apology he had composed seemed too little, too late to him, but it was all he could do.

. . . Or was it?

There would be no prisoner exchange for Colonel Robert Hogan. But the man was clever and resourceful; given orders to come home, he could easily escape. A replacement commander for the unit could be found: two years was certainly long enough for an officer to serve in such a hardship position, and Hogan had talents and knowledge that could be used to great effect elsewhere in the war. Hogan should come home to a hero's welcome, much deserved, and some time off first. Wait . . . hadn't there been a call recently for war heroes to sell war bonds back at home? Yes, that job would be just perfect as a reward. . . .

ooOoo

_Author's Notes: As I said at the beginning, I am grateful to R.S. Allen and Harvey Bullock, the original writers of "The General Swap." While I edited and substantially altered their story to produce this one, they originated the ideas, characters, and situations, and without them I would have had no source to play against. _

_Also my thanks go to all of you who have read and commented on this story. While I'd finished a full draft before beginning to post it, the generous comments and questions from all of you helped me in thinking through some issues and revising a number of areas I was still unsatisfied with. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!_


End file.
